We work together to relocate Jasper’s terrarium, moving carefully through the cabin by lamplight. The air between us is chilly everywhere except where his arm brushes mine—his body heat radiates like a furnace, the warmth so steady it feels elemental, like he carries a piece of the fire inside him.
The big snake seems calmer once he’s in the warmer environment, coiling peacefully in his habitat. My bedroom looks strange with the large terrarium taking up most of the floor space, but it’s the practical solution.
“He should be fine in here,” Ryder says, adjusting the placement one final time. “Better insulation, and his rock should heat up quickly now that we’ve got it plugged into one of the few outlets that gets power from the genny.”
When we return to the main room, the reality of our new sleeping arrangements hits me.
“You should take the couch,” Ryder says, shaking out blankets. “It’s better than the floor.”
“Which is exactly whyyoushould have it,” I shoot back. “You’re twice my size. The floor’s going to be brutal.”
He shakes his head, calm as always. “I’ve handled worse. It’ll suit you better than me.”
I narrow my eyes, ready to argue, but he just holds my gaze. Finally, I blow out a frustrated breath. “Fine. But only because you’re being stubborn.”
I stretch out on the cushions—then immediately regret it. A spring jabs my hip like it’s auditioning for medieval torture equipment. The backrest slopes so badly I feel like I’m sliding into a hole, and the whole thing sags like a hammock that’s lost the will to live. I shift left, then right, then tuck my knees up, but every position uncovers a new spring determined to bruise a different part of me. After three minutes I bolt upright with a groan.
“Okay, this thing is a war crime disguised as furniture.”
Ryder smirks. “Didn’t even last five minutes. I survived two nights.”
“Which makes you either superhuman or in need of a chiropractor,” I shoot back.
Flopping upright, I rub my lower back with a wince. “Seriously, though… I’m sorry, Ryder. I had no idea it was this bad. I haven’t sat on it, let alone slept on it in years. Usually, I sit in the big chair by the window to read, and in the evening I move to the rocker near the fireplace. You should have said something.” Thewords come out more earnest than I expect, because watching him grin at me like this—easy, unbothered, good-natured—just makes the guilt sharper.
Ryder shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Firehouse bunks aren’t much better. At least this doesn’t smell like wet gear.”
“That’s not the ringing endorsement you think it is.” I rub my lower back, wincing. “Sorry you had to battle this thing at night while I was cozy in my bed.”
He quirks one brow, amusement glinting in his eyes. “Don’t apologize. You didn’t know.”
“I should have guessed,” I mutter. “Any couch that ugly has to be hiding a bad personality.”
That earns me a low laugh, warm enough to make my stomach flutter. I glance toward the bedroom doorway, an idea forming. “You know what? This is ridiculous. We’re both going to end up with permanent spinal damage if we keep this up.”
“What are you thinking?” Ryder asks, his tone curious.
“My mattress. Let’s just bring it out here.” I gesture toward the fireplace. “It’ll be warmer, more comfortable, and we can both actually sleep without becoming medical marvels of human—and orc—endurance.”
He considers this for a beat, then nods. “Makes sense. Want help?”
“Are you kidding? That thing weighs a ton.” I’m already moving toward the bedroom, adrenaline spiking at the prospect of actually being comfortable—and maybe at the idea of being a little closer to him without having to admit that’s what I want.
The bedroom is darker now with only lamplight filtering in from the main room, and colder without the fire’s warmth. Jasper’s terrarium takes up a good portion of the floor space, the heat lamp casting an eerie glow over his coiled form.
“Okay,” I say, surveying the situation. “We need to flip it on its side first, then maneuver it through the door.”
Ryder moves to one end of the mattress with the easy confidence of someone used to heavy lifting. When he grips the edge and lifts, his shoulders flex beneath his shirt, muscles shifting with barely contained power. He makes it look effortless—the mattress coming up in one smooth motion that would’ve had me grunting and straining.
I try not to stare. I fail spectacularly.
“Coming through,” he says, angling it through the doorway with surprising grace for someone his size, especially while handling something that bulky in such a tight space. His biceps bulge as he adjusts his grip, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut across his chest and back.
Holy hell.
I’m supposed to be helping, but instead I’m having increasingly inappropriate thoughts about those muscles and what they’d feel like under my hands. Or against my body. Or…
“Laney? You okay?”
