A few hours drifted by. The pale white and grey of the afternoon slowly deepened into the romantic blue-grey of a winter night, casting soft shadows across the heavy snow. Every now and then, the clouds parted and the moon shone through, catching the frost and lighting up the woods around the cabin like a field of diamonds.
Anxious and restless, Ron kept stepping out onto the porch to chop more wood. It was mostly an excuse to look down the long Indiana hill, praying to see the headlights of a jeep with chained tires, or even a snowmobile, plowing up his buried gravel road. He just wanted his man in his home, in his bed.
Ron swung the axe, cleanly splitting a thick log of ash. He leaned down, his broad shoulders straining against his shirt as he gathered the fresh timber. When he stood back up, his breath hitched.
Standing right there in the clearing was a massive, heavily bundled figure. The man was hirsute and beautifully bearded, wrapped in three different clashing patterns of thick flannel that only made his burly frame look larger. He wore heavy boots and was completely soaked through with snow—wet pants, wet jacket, wet everything. He carried a beast of a backpack, and his thick cheeks were flushed a brutal, handsome cherry red from the biting cold. The wild, messy wingtips of his signature "wolverine" haircut were tucked tightly under a red sock hat.
"Bub," the big man rumbled, his deep voice cutting through the freezing air.
Ron dropped the wood, his heart hammering against his ribs. "How the flying fuck did you get up here?"
The man offered a weary, rugged smile. "Walked."
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