She studies my face, and I watch her process my non-answer. Then, slowly, she shifts closer.
I don't move.
"You don't talk much," she says.
"No."
"But you listen."
"Yeah."
"That's nice." Her voice goes softer. "Most people wait for their turn to talk. You actually hear what I'm saying."
I don't know what to do with that observation, so I just stay quiet.
She shifts again, and now her shoulder is almost touching mine. The warmth from her body seeps into my side. My fingers curl into the sheets to keep from reaching for her.
"Can I ask you something else?" she whispers.
"You're going to anyway."
My voice sounds hoarse. Maybe I need some water.
I hear her smile in the darkness. "Fair point." A pause. "When was the last time someone stayed here? In this cabin, in this bed with you?"
"Never."
"Never?"
"You're the first."
She goes still. "Oh."
The word comes out small, stripped of her usual brightness. That quiet 'oh' tells me she understands what I'm saying—that I've never let anyone this close, that she's different, that this matters.
In the darkness she's different. More herself.
My admission settles between us. Three years in this cabin, and I've never let anyone this close, never shared this space or allowed anyone past the walls I've built.
Until her.
"Red…" She breathes my name, and it does something to me.
I turn toward her, and suddenly we're face-to-face on the pillows, mere inches apart. Every detail is so clear—the way her pupils dilate, the small mole near her temple, the way her lips part.
"This is a bad idea," I say, even as my hand moves to her waist, my palm settling against the curve of her hip through my sweater.
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
"Why?" Her hand comes up, resting tentatively on my chest, right over my heart. I wonder if she can feel how hard it's pounding. "Why is it a bad idea?"
Because you're leaving when the storm clears, and I'm not built for this anymore—for hope or someone like you. Because I'll ruin this the way I ruin everything, and the last person who got close to me died, and I can't?—
"Because," I say again.
But my thumb is stroking small circles on her hip, and she's leaning closer, and the space between us is shrinking with every breath.
