Pikemovesaroundthesmall living space with a controlled, deliberate calm that draws my attention no matter how hard I try not to stare.
He said he'd sleep on the couch, and he meant it. He brings out an extra pillow and a heavy wool blanket, shaking them out with the same stubborn certainty he brings to every decision.
"You don't have to do that," I say again, even though we've had this argument twice already.
"You're not sleeping out here," he replies, his tone steady. "I've slept on this couch more times than I can count. I'll be fine."
He will be.
I won't.
Because the idea of Pike stretched out on this couch—tall, broad, and broody—is enough to make me feel uncomfortably warm.
"You're sure you're comfortable?" I ask.
"Yes." His answer is immediate. Then he says, "Go. Get some rest."
I linger for another moment. He notices, of course. Pike notices everything.
His eyes hold mine, steady and unreadable. "You’re safe. Go to bed.”
I smile before I can stop myself. "You say that like you've had to reassure people before."
"I haven't," he says. "You're the first person who's ever stayed here."
Something inside me flutters. Maybe it's surprise. Maybe it's something more dangerous.
"All right. Goodnight," I whisper, making my way toward the bedroom.
"Goodnight, Emory."
When I close the bedroom door, my heart is still beating too fast.
I don't know how long I lie awake, listening to the faint creak of the couch as Pike shifts his weight. The cabin is impossibly quiet otherwise. No cars outside. No passing footsteps. Just the crackle of cooling embers and the steady rhythm of the storm outside, wind sighing through the pines.
Eventually, I give up on sleep and slip back out, hoping for a glass of water.
Pike is sitting up on the couch, elbow propped on the armrest, his eyes half-closed but very much awake. His hair is disheveled,and in the dim firelight, he looks both vulnerable and impossibly solid.
"You're still up?" I ask softly.
His gaze lifts to mine. "Couldn't sleep."
"Is it the storm?"
"No." His pause is brief, but heavy enough to feel. "It's you."
My breath catches.
He shifts slightly to face me. The firelight paints warm edges around his silhouette. His bare forearms catch the glow, and I can't help staring at the strength in them—the proof of a life lived by his hands, shaping fire into something delicate.
"Was I being too loud? I didn't mean to keep you awake," I say.
"It's not your fault."
But his voice has roughened, deepened, and I'm not sure he believes that.
I step closer to the fire, the floor creaking beneath my feet. Pike watches me as though I'm a spark too close to dry timber.
