The admission hangs between us, honest and terrifying. I wait for him to pull back, to remember all the reasons this is complicated, but instead he leans in, stopping just shy of touching me. His breath warms the space between us, close enough to feel, not close enough to break whatever spell we’re under.
“Sunshine,” he says, and this time the endearment is deliberate, warm, full of something that makes my pulse skip and race. “I’ve been affected since the moment I saw you trying to get Bonnie and Clyde off that roof.”
For years,sunshineonly reminded me of what I’d lost—my dad’s voice, the illusion of a family that lasted. But the way Ryder says it isn’t tied to the past. It feels like an invitation—to warmth, to hope, to a kind of trust I wasn’t sure I’d ever give again.
His other hand frames my face, reverent and sure, and when he leans in, I meet him halfway. The kiss is slow and deep and makes my toes curl in my wool socks. It tastes like possibility and promises neither of us has dared to make yet.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, his forehead rests against mine.
“The snake lesson is over,” I murmur.
“Yeah,” he agrees, his smile warm against my lips. “But something much more important just began.”
As we leave the bedroom, Ryder’s hand briefly touches the small of my back—a simple gesture that makes my skin tingle under the layers of thermal shirt and fleece.
He trusted me with his fear, and I trusted him with my carefully guarded heart. In teaching him how to be gentle with something that scared him, I’ve discovered how to handle the fragile parts of myself.
Maybe trust isn’t something you teach. Maybe it’s what happens when two uncertain hearts learn how to hold steady together.
Outside, the storm’s finally gone quiet—but inside me, something new has begun to stir.
Chapter Eleven
Laney
By midday, the power hums back to life. The sudden buzz of the fridge and the overhead light’s warm glow feel almost shocking after so many hours of silence and shadow. After the session with Jasper, there’s a new awareness between Ryder and me, something that shifted when I guided his hands and tolerated being called Sunshine.
The storm broke sometime during the morning, but even with the power back on, I imagine it will be at least another day or two before the plows can get up here to my remote cabin. Which means we’re still trapped in this domestic bubble, isolated from reality.
The way Ryder moves around the kitchen makes it feel like he’s always belonged here, his presence as natural as the scent ofcoffee and pine smoke. In just a few days we’ve slipped into routines that feel effortless, as if we’ve been sharing this space for years instead of days.
He sets a steaming mug in front of me. The simple, thoughtful gesture is comforting. This is domesticity. Comfort. Dangerous words for a woman who’s made a habit of keeping her distance.
We eat in companionable silence, the kind that hums with all the things we’re not saying. When he finally retreats to the armchair near the fire, a book in his massive hands, I can’t seem to sit still. The steady rhythm of him—reading, breathing, existing so calmly—only makes my own restless energy louder.
I need a project. Something to occupy my hands and mind before I do something stupid like drag him to our mattress and pick up where we left off when we kissed this morning.
“You know what this place needs?” I ask, surveying the cabin with critical eyes. “It needs to feel less like a survival bunker and more like a home where Christmas actually lives.”
Ryder looks up from his book, glances around the room and asks, “Decorations?”
“Exactly. My grandmother’s Christmas boxes are in the attic. I haven’t looked at them since I inherited the place, but there’s got to be something salvageable up there.”
From his cage, Peanut immediately chimes in. “Stupid!” A pause, then more emphatically, “Stupid!”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I mutter. “But we’re surviving just fine, and morale matters too.”
Ryder carefully transfers the sleeping kitten to snuggle with her siblings and stands. “Need help getting them down?”
The offer makes practical sense. The attic access is through a pull-down ladder, and the boxes are probably heavy. Still, something about the unhurried way he says it—steady, certain—makes warmth curl low in my stomach.
After this morning—watching his hands learn to be gentle with Jasper, feeling the trust building between us—I’m even more aware of how he moves, and I wonder how his jeans will look when he climbs the ladder.
“That would be great, thanks.”
As Ryder crosses the room toward the attic access, Peanut suddenly calls out in a surprisingly accurate mimicry of Ryder’s deeper voice: “Sunshine! Sunshine!”
I freeze. Ryder stops mid-step, turning to look at the parrot with raised eyebrows.
