"You're awake," he murmurs against my shoulder.
"How long have you been up?"
"Few minutes. Didn't want to move." His hand spreads across my stomach, pulling me closer. "Didn't want this to end."
I turn in his arms to face him. His hair is shorter now, still touching his collar but no longer wild. The beard is trimmed close, revealing more of his face. He looks younger. Less haunted. The transformation is striking.
"Hi," I say.
"Hi." He brushes hair back from my face. "Any regrets yet?"
"No. You?"
"Not a single one." He kisses me. Slow and thorough. His mouth tastes like sleep and last night and promises neither of us has made yet.
When we break apart, the satellite phone on the table catches my eye. The files about Emma spread across the surface. The assault we're supposed to be preparing for.
"We should check in with Zeke," I say.
"Probably." But he doesn't move. Just traces patterns on my bare shoulder with his fingers. "Give me five more minutes of pretending the rest of the world doesn't exist."
I settle back against his chest. "Five minutes."
We lie there in the growing light. The fire crackles softly. Outside, I can hear snow sliding off the roof in wet chunks. The world coming back whether we want it to or not.
Eventually, we can't put it off any longer. We get up, hunt for our clothes scattered around the floor. I find everything except my shirt. Rhys locates his jeans and pulls them on, then hands me his flannel shirt from yesterday.
"Here. It's warmer than yours anyway."
I slip it on. The fabric is soft from washing, and it smells like him. Cedar and smoke and man. The sleeves hang past my hands. The hem falls to mid-thigh. When I look up, Rhys has stopped moving. His eyes track over me, dark and intent, his jaw tightening under the trimmed beard.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing. Just..." He shakes his head, but his gaze doesn't leave me. "You look good in my clothes."
The roughness in his voice makes my skin warm. He's looking at me like he wants to strip the shirt right back off. Like seeing me wear it satisfies something fundamental in him.
"Down, Sheriff. We have work to do."
"Yeah." He moves to the wood stove, starts building up the fire again. "Doesn't mean I can't appreciate the view."
I head to the kitchen to start coffee. The flannel shirt brushes my thighs. The pleasant ache in my muscles reminds me of lastnight. The man building a fire ten feet away will be planning an assault with me in less than two hours.ht
Two weeks ago I was patrolling a mining facility at night, counting down hours until I could sleep. Now I'm making coffee in his cabin, wearing his shirt, preparing for a fight that might kill us both.
I should be terrified.
I'm not.
The propane burner lights. I measure grounds and pump water. Rhys feeds the fire, then joins me in the kitchen. We move around each other easily, no awkwardness despite being half-dressed and sleep-rumpled.
"Storm broke," he says, looking out the window. "Roads will be passable by this afternoon."
"Back to reality."
"Yeah." He accepts the coffee I hand him. "But we need to talk about what happens after. After the assault, after we take down the trafficking network. What this is between us."
"We do." I lean against the counter. "But maybe we survive the assault first, then figure out the rest."
