I watch, transfixed, as he lifts each tiny creature with infinite care, settling them one by one against my stomach where my thermal shirt makes a warm nest. The white kitten, Snowball, mews softly as he’s placed, and I instinctively curve my hand around him, feeling the rapid flutter of his heartbeat.
“There,” he says quietly, tucking an extra blanket around us both. “Safe and warm. Exactly what they need.”
The tenderness in his voice—the way he makes sure I’m comfortable before stepping into the storm—is almost too much.
“Ryder—”
“I’ll be quick.” He pulls on his boots, his body stark against the dim light. “Just want to make sure everyone made it through the night.”
As the door closes behind him, I lie still, surrounded by warmth and small heartbeats. Not just the kiss, but everything after—the care, the gentleness, the quiet way he sees me—presses heavy and bright in my chest.
Part of me aches to lean into that gentleness, to believe it could last. But belief is dangerous, and I’ve learned how easily hope can fracture.
I stretch out on the mattress, acutely aware of how the sheets still hold the warmth from where he was lying.
Maybe peace was never meant to last—but for tonight, it feels like the calm between heartbeats, a quiet place I don’t want to leave.
Chapter Nine
Ryder
The barn door creaks behind me as I step back into the cabin, stamping snow from my boots. Everyone made it through the night. The animals are settled, water troughs aren’t frozen solid thanks to the tank heaters, and the barn weathered the storm without issue.
Inside, the cabin is quiet except for soft purring from a contented mother cat and snoring from the pig on the couch. Laney’s still asleep on the mattress by the fire, Duchess curled protectively next to her with all four kittens tucked close. The sight makes something in my chest constrict—this fierce, independent woman who’s let her guard down enough to sleep peacefully while I watch over her small kingdom.
I busy myself quietly, stoking the fire and starting coffee in the coffeemaker that’s plugged into one of the few outlets connected to the genny. The familiar ritual helps ground me after the intimacy of the kiss, the way she fit against me, the vulnerability in her eyes.
The rich smell of brewing coffee fills the cabin, and I hear her stir.
“Morning,” she mumbles, voice sleep-rough as she carefully extracts herself from the pile of cats without waking them.
“Morning.” I hand her a mug after she sits up, and I join her by the fire. “Couldn’t sleep once the sun came up.”
She wraps both hands around the mug, breathing in the steam. “How is our barnyard crew?”
“All good. Animals are fine, the structure’s solid, and we’ve got plenty of supplies.” I meet her eyes. “We’re in good shape.”
“We are, aren’t we?” But the way she says it tells me she’s not just talking about the animals.
“About last night,” I start, watching her carefully.
She sets down her mug, and I catch the flicker of uncertainty flash across her face before she hides it. “The kittens?”
“And after.” I meet her eyes.
A low purr rumbles out of me before I can stop it. I fight to quiet it, but it’s useless. Looking straight into her eyes, I say, “I don’t regret it. Any of it.”
Her cheeks flush. “Me neither.” She hesitates. “But I also don’t know what it means.”
“It means we stop pretending there’s nothing happening here.” I keep my voice steady. “It means we’re honest about the fact that this—” I gesture between us, “—is more than just a work arrangement.”
“And what happens when the roads clear?” Her voice is quiet and I can tell that it cost her a lot to be vulnerable enough to ask that question.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I’d like to figure it out. Together. If you want.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, then nods. “Yeah. I want that too.”
I lean in close and kiss her, soft and slow, even as my mind jumps ahead, wondering what color her nipples are and what they’ll taste like. When we break apart, she’s smiling.
