The doorbell wakes me up. At first, I think it’s from the movie and I burrow deeper into the cushion to ignore it, but when it sounds again a moment later, my brain is aware enough to realize that the sound doesn’t fit with the dialogue currently happening on the screen.

I roll out of the couch, almost hitting my knees on the floor before catching myself, then stumble through my cottage as the doorbell rings a third time. It’s dark outside --snowflakes are whirling forcefully, and the wind is giving the nearby trees a vigorous shake.

When I pull open the door, I’m met by the back of someone walking away, shoulders hunched over, and a hood pulled up over the head. “Hey.” It’s a pathetic croak, and I need to clear my throat and try again. “Hey,” I repeat, louder this time, and the person turns around, flips back the hood, and walks back towards me.

Jona? I blink. Am I still sleeping?

“Hi,” he says as he steps up on the small porch.

“What are you doing here?” He’s never been to my place before; Gramma’s property is a good forty-minute drive from the city, and it’s more convenient to meet up somewhere in town for a quick dinner or a cup of coffee before continuing to his place. I can’t remember if I’ve even told him where exactly I live.

“You haven’t replied to any of my messages. I came to make sure you’re all right.”

A gust of wind pulls on the door, making me shiver, so I open it a little wider to let him in. “Come in before we freeze to death.” As soon as he’s stepped inside, I close the door behind him, dulling the roar of the wind.

Jona shoves his hands into his pockets, still hunching his shoulders, and keeping his eye firmly on the floor, and doesn’t make a move to take off his jacket or kick off his shoes.

I shake my head to clear it. His behavior is weird; he’s usually such a confident man. Intense and passionate, a man who speaks with certainty and conviction and not someone who hunches his shoulders and averts his gaze. “You wanna come in for a while?”

He nods, unzips his jacket, and hangs it neatly on the hook next to my parkas, then crouches down to unlace his boots. He follows me to the den, where I turn off the TV and retake my spot the couch, covering myself with one of the many crocheted blankets my grandmother has made me, gesturing for him to sit.

“You cold?” I ask, and when he nods, I toss him another blanket. A glance at my watch tells me it’s almost eleven. “Now spill. How come you’re here? How did you even know where I live?”

Jona makes himself comfortable on the couch -- some of the uncertainty leaving his body -- and wraps the blanket around himself. It’s such a contrast to him and his personality, a riot of bright, happy colors against his black hair, dark clothes, and sleek lines, and it makes me smile.

“Ever heard of the internet?” he asks, tone dry.

I smile and nod. “Once or twice. That still doesn’t explain why you showed up unannounced at,” I glance at my watch again, “ten forty-eight on a Friday night.”

“I didn’t think I needed a formal invitation to visit. And you’re not the kind of guy who’ll be upset over an unannounced visitor.”

“True. But you’re not an impulsive person. You like order and a tidy schedule.”

He hums in acknowledgment.

“So my question stands.”

Jona sneaks a hand underneath my blanket and lays it on the top of my bare foot; his palm is chilly, making me hiss. He slides his hand up to my ankle, grabs it and pulls, and when my leg is straight, he does the same with the other. He turns toward me, snatching off the blanket, then lets his gaze wander over my body.

He has the look of a starving man, hunger blazing from his gray eyes like lightning bolts, his hands trembling as though he’s barely restraining himself from tearing my clothes off.