Then the “pillow” shifts and tightens an arm around my waist.
Definitely not a pillow.
I blink my eyes open.
The fire in the stove has burned down to a soft, reddish glow. Early light is creeping in through the small windows, painting the cabin in pale gold. I’m curled on the couch with my back pressed to Rhett’s chest, his arm snug around me, our legs tangled under the heavy quilt like we’ve been doing this every morning for years.
My heart does a slow, tumbling flip.
We must have fallen asleep like this after sex last night. One minute I remember kissing him, warm and dizzy and happy, breathing him in while the fire crackled. The next minute…he’s inside me. I loved every minute of it. My body still hums in the afterglow.
I don’t hate it.
I don’t hate it at all.
“Morning,” he rumbles against my hair, voice low and sleep-rough.
The sound shivers straight down my spine.
“Morning,” I mumble back, trying very hard not to think about how perfectly I fit against him. Or how good he smells—like woodsmoke and soap and something warm that’s starting to feel likehomeif I’m not careful.
For a moment, we just lie there.
Breathing.
Existing.
Pretending the world outside the cabin doesn’t have roads or responsibilities or bosses who send emails with subject lines like CONTENT STATUS?? in all caps.
I could live in this moment forever.
Except I can’t.
Because at some point, the roads are going to open, and I’m going to have to drive back down the mountain and return to my life in Saint Pierce. The thought pokes a tiny, sharp hole in my chest.
“I can feel you thinking,” Rhett murmurs.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’ll file a noise complaint with management.”
His chest rumbles with a quiet laugh. “What are you thinking about?”
“Deadlines,” I lie, then sigh and tell the truth. “Leaving.”
His arm tightens just a fraction. “Yeah.”
One word. Loaded with everything we’re not saying.
I take a breath and reach for the thing Icancontrol. “Okay. Before I spiral into existential snow-globe depression, I need cozy footage today.”
“Cozy…footage,” he repeats.
“Lazy cabin morning,” I say, warming to the idea, because if I can’t stop time, I can at least press record. “Soft light, socks by the stove, mugs of coffee, anonymous snuggly silhouettes. Very ‘we survived a storm and learned feelings.’”
His chin brushes my temple as he shifts. “You want me in that?”
Yes.
“Only if you’re okay with it,” I say instead, twisting a bit to look at him. His hair is messed up, his eyes are still heavy with sleep, and there’s a faint kiss-bruised look to his mouth that makes satisfaction bloom low and warm in my belly.
