Free Scarlet Fever by April Hill

the cockpit door, and stared.
    There had been a miraculous transformation in their primitive living quarters.
    The two damaged rear seats that had forced them to sleep in fetal positions had been pulled up from the floor and rearranged against the right side of the plane, with the wooden crate that had held the canned goods between them. In the space the seats had once occupied, Cameron had fashioned a larger sleeping area, with their sleeping bags spread out on top of eight or ten inches of the ubiquitous moss. One of the tattered wool blankets served as a cover for what looked like a very serviceable, even comfortable bed.
    “I like what you’ve done with the place,” she said.
    He smiled. “I’m glad you approve. I’ve begun to explore my inner domestic.”
    “Actually, it looks a lot like my apartment,” she observed. “If my apartment were bigger. And cleaner. An empty pizza box or two would add to the illusion, and maybe a few diet Coke cans thrown around, here and there, but otherwise, looking at all this is like déjà vu.”
    “I don’t suppose you’d like to volunteer a couple of clothing items for curtains?” he asked.” I was thinking about some nice florals. Sort of pastelish, and summery.”
    “I’ll check my luggage, but I’m not a big fan of flowers. How about a pale blue pinstripe, and some tiny white polka dots, on a beige background?”
    He nodded. “That works for me. I’m sorry about the double bed, though. I was going for twins, with a discreet space between, but…Well, you know. The drastic shortage of bedding, and all that. Plus," he glanced away quickly, and Anne realized he was blushing a little, "it will be warmer."
    Anne felt her face flush in return. “I understand," she mumbled. "I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
    He pulled the top cover back and Anne saw he'd unzipped both sleeping bags, putting one below them and the other - his heavy-duty arctic number - on top. Over that was one of the tattered blankets, almost like a bed spread. "Come on," he said softly. "I'm getting cold."
    Stripping to her long johns, Anne climbed in next to him. She stretched out languorously, or at least as languorously as one could on sleeping-bag-covered moss.
    "Remember," he joked. "No snoring."
    Anne snorted. “More insults? Where I come from, Sergeant Cameron, voluptuous is a polite way of saying fat . And I do not snore.”
    He smiled. “Of course, you don’t. And you don’t snuggle up to me at night, either, when you think I’m asleep.”
    “Extreme cold does strange things to women, too,” she explained coolly. “Which reminds me. I’m freezing my butt. Move over. You’re on my side of the bed.”
    They lay there for a while, enjoying the added warmth and comfort of the new sleeping arrangements— and watching the snow begin to fall.
    “Well, it’s nice to know that you’re not perfect, after all,” she said wearily “You were wrong about what time the snow would start.”
    “I wish that were funny,” he said quietly. “The problem is, if it keeps snowing like this all night, there’ll be no getting out of here, on foot. Our one snowshoe won’t be a lot of help.”
    Anne closed her eyes—gratefully. “Will you get mad at me if I say I’m relieved that you won’t be able to go?” she asked softly.
    “No. But it’s going to mean half-rations from here on out.”
    “So, what were they before?”
    He didn’t answer, but drew her closer, and pulled the top sleeping bag over both of their heads. “Stop squirming around, and keep your head covered.”
    “I can’t talk with my head covered,” she protested.
    Cameron chuckled. “I know.”
    “Do you mind I ask you something?” she asked. “Something really personal?”
    “If you want to know if I’m getting turned on , as you put it, the answer is yes. Now, stop kicking me in the shins, and go to sleep, if you can. We’re going to have to dig out of here in the morning.”
    She moved closer, and stretched her arms