I don’t.
I follow, heart pounding too loud in my ears, palms suddenly not as steady as I’m used to.
The loft is bathed in soft, amber light. The bed looks the way it always does—white sheets, heavy quilt, simple. But with her standing next to it, fingers still twisted in her sweater, it looks like something else. Like a choice.
“I don’t do casual well,” I tell her, stopping an arm’s length away. “Not built for it.”
“Good,” she says, stepping closer, eyes never leaving mine. “Because I don’t want casual with you.”
The words hit me like a clean breath after being underwater too long.
She reaches up, sliding her hands along my jaw, fingers warm against my skin. “I know I’m leaving tomorrow,” she says. “I know we’re going to have to figure out what this looks like down the mountain. But tonight…I wantthisto be real.’”
I cover her hands with mine. “It’s already real,” I say. “Has been since you crashed into my sleigh.”
Her laugh is a little shaky. “So this is your way of saying you’re into women who cause property damage.”
“Apparently,” I murmur.
And then I kiss her.
This isn’t the slow, testing kiss from the couch. This is something deeper. Hungrier. A pulling together of every look and laugh and touch we’ve shared in this cabin into one long, steady claim.
She leans into it like she’s been waiting, meeting me halfway, lips soft and sure. Her hands slide around the back of my neck, then into my hair, tugging just enough to make my breath hitch. I walk her backward toward the bed, slow, giving her every chance to stop me.
She doesn’t.
Her knees hit the mattress. She sits, pulling me down with her, and suddenly we’re half tangled, the quilt pushed aside, her body warm under my hands.
I break the kiss just long enough to look at her.
“There’ll never be a day that goes by where I won’t want you,” I say.
“Same,” she whispers, eyes bright and steady. “I want this. I want you.”
The words settle somewhere deep in my chest and light a fire nothing outside these walls can touch.
We move together. My hands map the curve of her waist, the small of her back, the dip of her shoulder. She explores me right back, palms sliding over my chest, down my sides, like she’s memorizing muscle and scar both.
Every time a sound slips out of her—soft, involuntary—I feel it like electricity under my skin.
The outside world falls away. No roads. No plows. No email. Just the quiet rhythm of our breathing and the rustle of sheets as we find the center of the bed, facing each other.
She traces along my throat with one fingertip, eyes searching mine. “When was the last time you let someone close likethis? Not just sex, because I know we’ve done that already, but intimate. Like now,” she asks, voice barely audible over the crackle from below.
“A long time ago,” I admit. “Before the sand. Before the noise.”
“And now?” she asks.
“Now I want to let you in,” I say, the words bare and honest in a way that would’ve scared me with anyone else. “All the way.”
Her hand slides to my chest, over my heart, like it did that night she slept with her arm across me without knowing. “Then let me,” she whispers.
So I do.
I kiss her again, slower now, but deeper, letting the moment stretch. Her lips part under mine, and I follow the invitation, tasting her, losing myself in the way she responds. She tugs me closer, her leg sliding against mine, sending heat spiraling through me. It’s not frantic like last night. This is slower. More of a connection.
My hand curves over her hip, anchoring her as we move, our bodies finding a rhythm that feels both brand new and long overdue.
