I choke out a laugh. “You smell like trouble.”
She grins. “Guess we’re even then.”
I turn down the bed, forcing my hands to move slow, controlled. “You get the left.”
She eyes the bed, then the couch. “You sure?”
“Take the bed, Hart.”
Her chin tilts. “Fine. But I’m building a wall.”
She grabs pillows—four, maybe five—and stacks them down the center of the mattress like she’s dividing property lines.
I cross my arms, leaning against the wall. “You think that’s gonna stop anything?”
“From what?” she teases. “You rolling over in your sleep and attacking me with a power tool?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
She slides under the blankets, the rustle of sheets sounding far dirtier than it should. “I’m just saying, I’ve seen the way you look at me.”
I bark out a laugh. “You’ve got an imagination.”
“Maybe.” She rolls onto her side, eyes glinting in the firelight. “But I think you like me.”
“Like you?” I walk to the bed, plant my hands on the headboard, lean in close enough for her to smell the woodsmoke on my skin. “You talk too much. You leave glitter everywhere. You nearly burned my kitchen down making cocoa an hour ago.”
Her smile grows. “That wasn’t a no.”
“Go to sleep, Hart.”
She sighs, long and dramatic, like she’s doing it just to get under my skin. “Goodnight, mountain man.”
I grunt, slide under the covers on my side, keeping the pillow wall intact. The fire snaps low. The storm outside howls, wrapping the cabin in a steady hum.
Minutes stretch. Maybe hours.
But I don’t sleep.
Because she’s here, breathing slow on the other side of that stupid pillow barrier, her warmth leaking across the divide. Every time she shifts, the sheet moves, whispering against skin. Every inhale smells faintly of vanilla and smoke and something else—something that makes my chest ache.
I stare at the ceiling, jaw tight, every muscle strung taut.
I’ve been alone for a long damn time. Liked it that way. No noise, no clutter, no distractions. But this woman—this loud, messy, brilliant little storm—has turned my quiet into something I can’t stand anymore.
And for the first time, I wonder if I even want the silence back.
Hours later, I hear her sigh. The soft sound of her shivering.
“Damn it,” I mutter.
I turn over. The fire’s burned down to embers. She’s curled tight, shoulders shaking under the blanket.
Screw the pillow wall.
I push it aside and slide closer, careful but not careful enough. The second my arm wraps around her, she melts into me—instinctive, perfect. Her back presses to my chest, her hair brushes my jaw. Heat blooms between us, slow and dangerous.
She sighs, whispering something that sounds like my name before going still.
