DAHLIA
The fire’s burned down to coals by the time I hear the door open again.
Cold air rolls through the cabin, followed by Denver’s uneven footsteps. He moves like a man running from ghosts and finding them waiting inside.
I keep still, breathing slow beneath the blankets. I’m not asleep. But if he thinks I am, maybe he’ll stay. Maybe the storm outside will lose its echo in here.
Floorboards creak. Metal clicks. The poker against the hearth, a coat set on the hook. He’s going through the motions: feeding the fire, stoking the silence, pretending everything’s normal.
Then, the soft rustle of fabric, the quiet breathing, the steps in his nightly ritual. When the mattress dips, my pulse stutters. He lies down on his side of the bed, careful, distant, like proximity alone might undo his restraint. The air between us hums, no Bear to keep us apart.
I wait until his breathing evens, then whisper, “Denver.”
He stills. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.” My throat’s tight. “Couldn’t sleep.”
A pause. Then, quieter. “Me neither.”
I turn, facing him through the dim glow of firelight from the bedroom hearth. His eyes catch the glow, haunted and beautiful.
“You ran out,” I murmur. “I thought maybe you regretted?—”
“Never,” he says hoarsely. “Not possible.”
I swallow hard, summon the courage that got me up this mountain in the first place. “Can I tell you something scarier than the storm?”
He nods once.
“I’m terrified of what happens if I don’t tell you how I feel.” The words tumble out on a shaking breath. “That I’ll miss this—missyou—and end up back where I started, alive but not really living.”
Something flickers across his face, pain, disbelief, hope tangled together.
“Sunshine…” he whispers, the nickname a rough prayer. “I’m not good at this.”
“Then let me be,” I say, reaching across the narrow space between us. My fingers brush his jaw, scratch through his beard. “Just … be here.”
He exhales, shaky, then catches my hand, pressing it against his chest. His heart drums fast beneath my palm, shivers of longing thrumming between us. “You scare the hell out of me,” he admits.
“Good,” I breathe. “Means we’re both alive.”
The dam between us breaks. He rolls toward me, gathering me close, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that’s nothing like the first—no apology, no doubt. Just need and belonging.
The world narrows to heat and heartbeat, to the roughness of his hands and the soft insistence of my body answering his. Every touch is a confession, every sigh a promise that neither of us has to run from anymore.
His work-hardened hands glide over flannel. “No pants?” he grumbles, mouth tipping up at the edges.
“Not tonight,” I whisper, voice wobbling.
He lifts an edge, sliding beneath. My arms wrap around his neck, drawing him tight against me. This moment—him. It’s all I need.
Our mouths collide, impassioned, reckless. His tongue sweeps into me, devouring, like a hungry man before a feast. He moans, and it unleashes something in me. Feral, bold, desperate.
“God, I crave you,” I pant between kisses, tugging at his boxer briefs. His silky beard brushes my collarbone, shivers of desire quaking through my core.
The back of my hand glances over a rough ridge of flesh. He stiffens.
“Did I do something wrong?”
