S.M. Herring
Large hands yanked Juliana down below the firing line.
“Get over here!” Herkinham snapped.
Her shoulder screamed as she hit the ground hard beside him, breath rushing out of her lungs in a sharp, painful burst. For a moment she saw nothing but white. Then sensation flooded back in layers. Impact. Pain.
The heat of his body was immediate, solid and immovable, blocking both the wind and the gunfire. He was close enough that she could feel the vibration of each breath he took, steady and controlled despite the chaos around them.
Dirty and bleeding, his jaw was set in fury. Snow clung to his hair and the collar of his jacket, already melting into dark patches. He was maddeningly composed. Not classically handsome. Dangerous in a way that made her acutely aware of how close he was, how easily his strength could overwhelm or save her.
Juliana pressed her palm to her shoulder and hissed. “I’ve been hit, jerk-face.”
He dropped into a crouch, eyes flicking once to the spreading red on her sleeve. “I saw.”
Gunfire stuttered, then went quiet, as if the world itself held its breath. The silence was worse. It rang in her ears, sharp and hollow.
Snow floated down between them, slow and deceptively gentle, melting on his collar and her lashes. It softened the ruined edges of the battlefield, blanketing the rubble. Herkinham didn’t move or reach for her, but he didn’t look away either.
“Jones, Herkinham, what’s your location?”
Juliana’s radio was gone, torn loose somewhere in the scramble. She swallowed and reached for his instead, fingers stiff and clumsy with cold. “I guess I’m stuck here with you.”
His gaze sharpened, something unreadable passing through his eyes. “You—”
Pain flared as she leaned across him, close enough to smell gun oil and the faint bite of sweat beneath the cold. “I’ve been hit,” she muttered into the radio, “and Herkinham has apparently turned into an ice sculpture.”
She read the GPS coordinates, breath fogging the mic as snow thickened by the minute. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears.
“You’re on your own tonight,” Sergeant Johnson finally said. “Weather’s grounding everything.”
The line went dead.
Juliana stared at the radio a moment too long, willing it to come back to life. “That’s it,” she said quietly. “No birds. No backup.”
Herkinham’s gaze flicked from her shoulder to the sky, where the light was already fading into a dull gray haze. “We won’t last out here.”
Big, wet, cotton-ball-sized snowflakes fell faster now, muffling all sound until the world felt distant and unreal. Cold pressed in from every direction. She exhaled slowly, forcing her thoughts to line up.
“There’s an abandoned house. It’s not far.” Juliana’s hands trembled despite her effort to still them.
Slowly, he reached to examine her shoulder, fingers careful, precise. “Can you walk?”
Juliana lifted her chin, meeting his eyes. “Watch me.”
They moved fast, heads down, pressing through the storm. The wind cut straight through her gear, needling every exposed inch of skin. Her shoulder burned with every step, a deep, pulsing ache that made her teeth clench.
Halfway there, her leg gave out.
Herkinham caught her before she hit the ground, his arm locking around her waist. The strength in it was startling, unyielding. “Easy.”
“I’m fine,” she lied, breathless, vision narrowing at the edges.
“I know.” He didn’t let go.
The house loomed out of the storm like a ghost, roof half gone, windows cracked and rimmed with ice. He cleared it quickly while she waited, heart pounding too fast now, every second stretching thin. Then he shoved the door closed behind them and dragged debris into place.
Silence.
The sudden quiet pressed in just as heavily as the storm outside.
Juliana slid down the wall, shaking now. The adrenaline drained away, leaving the cold to settle deep into her bones. Her fingers had gone numb. Her toes followed.
“We’re snowed in,” she said quietly, the words feeling heavier than they should have.
Herkinham nodded once. “Storm’s not breaking tonight.”
He pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders, the fabric still warm from his body. The simple kindness of it caught her off guard.
She blinked up at him. “You’ll freeze.”
“Not if we’re smart.”
She huffed a weak laugh. “You’re impossible.”
Herkinham grinned and sat beside her, close enough that their arms touched. After a beat, he shifted even closer, careful, deliberate. Asking without words.
Juliana leaned into him, resting her weight against his side. The warmth soaked in slowly, easing the violent shivering she hadn’t realized had started.
They sat like that, backs to the wall, sharing heat, listening to the storm bury the world outside. Snow tapped softly against the broken windows. The sound was oddly soothing.
“You really were a Marine?” he asked softly.
“Four years,” she said. “Iraq twice.”
He studied her face, the lines of strain and fatigue she no longer bothered to hide. “You don’t act like a mercenary.”
“Neither do you.”
A corner of Herkinham’s mouth lifted. “Guess we both make bad decisions.”
Her teeth chattered again. He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her closer until she could feel the steady beat of his heart. “Hey,” he murmured. “Stay with me, Jones.”
“I am,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
For a long moment, they just breathed together, the rhythm of it grounding. Herkinham’s forehead rested against hers, cold melt dripping from his hair onto her skin. She closed her eyes, letting herself exist in that small pocket of warmth.
“This is probably a terrible idea, Herkinham,” she whispered.
“Probably,” he agreed.
Still, he kissed her. Careful. Warm. The kind of kiss meant to promise more than just survival.
“Call me Matt,” he said softly, his breath brushing her cheek.
Outside, the storm raged, relentless and unyielding. Inside, Juliana curled closer, wrapped in his jacket and his arms, and held on as they waited for morning.
A member of Word Weavers International for several years, Stacie has always invested in fellow authors. She has been hired on several occasions to edit. Her novel Fire is under contract with Elk Lake Publishing and is pending release in 2026.
As a military brat and then active-duty Navy herself, Stacie has traveled and lived all over the globe. Because of this, she has a soft spot in her heart for the active-duty military, veterans, and their families. Upon discharge from active duty, she earned two degrees in psychology to include a master’s in professional counseling from Liberty University.
Currently, Stacie specializes in combat and military sexual trauma as well as grief. Following the tragic deaths of two husbands, she began a grief ministry at her local church. After moving every three years or so for most of her life, she still looks forward to experiencing new places.
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