Back in the bedroom, I open the dresser and rifle through Bran’s things for something to wear. My leggings and sweater from yesterday are still in a sad, rumpled heap on the floor; the idea of putting them back on over sex-sweaty skin makes my sensory issues hiss.
My fingers land on a T-shirt that’s soft from a hundred washes, gray with a faded logo from some Irish pub. It smells like detergent and Bran and a faint, grounding hint of his cologne.
Good enough.
I tug it over my head. It falls to mid-thigh on me, sleeves swallowing my hands. I find a pair of thick socks in the drawer and pull them up to my knees, the wool scratching just enough to feel like pressure, not irritation.
Scratch, covered. Sensory system, appeased.
Virginity, long gone.
Do not think about that right now, Twig.
I take a breath, square my shoulders, and open the bedroom door.
Bran stands at the island, big and solid and very muchhere. Last night’s whiskey glass sits empty by his elbow. In front of him, a platter of raw steaks gleams red as he pauses mid-brush with olive oil.
His gaze lifts. It tracks down my bare legs, over the hem of his T-shirt, lingers at the way it hangs off my shoulders. Heat flares in his eyes, dark and fast, before he reins it in and looks back at the meat like he didn’t just mentally strip me with one glance.
“Morning.” His voice is rough, gravel scraping the edges of the word.
Something in my chest unclenches.
“Good morning,” I murmur, skirting around him to open the fridge.
Right. Be normal. Be cool.
So you had sex last night. A lot of sex. That doesn’t mean anything has to be weird. People do that. Adults. They have stress-induced, proximity-induced, “we might die soon so let’s enjoy this” sex and then return to regularly scheduled programming.
MaybeI should say that out loud. Set his mind at ease. Maybe he woke up panicking that because I was a virgin, I’m going to start doodling his last name in my notebook and building wedding spreadsheets.
And the thing is, I don’t want or need a ring. I’m not some fainting maiden, fanning herself because she’s “ruined.” I made a choice. I’d make it again.
I’m capable of handling this like an adult.
My fingers fidget on the refrigerator handle; my brain picks that moment to replay the way he’d looked when he realized—when we both realized—what I hadn’t told him.
His face had gone shock-white under his tan for a second, genuine horror flashing there like I’d thrown a brick at his moral code.
I gnaw on my lower lip, scanning the contents of the fridge. Orange juice. Eggs. Some kind of greens. Cheese.
No donuts. Rude.
Cold air prickles over my bare legs; my nipples pebble under the T-shirt in a way that has nothing to do with Bran and everything to do with the temperature. Totally.
The silence stretches, thin and taut. The cabin feels suddenly smaller, all that sex and danger and unsaid stuff hanging in the air like fog.
I can’t take it.
“You don’t have to worry about me being a nuisance,” I blurt, grabbing the juice and using it as a shield.
“I want you to know last night wasn’t just a one-off for me,” Bran says at the exact same time.
We both stop.
His words hit my brain half a beat late. “What?” I turn, clutching the juice carton like a life raft.
Bran is staring at me like I just announced I was moving to Antarctica with Henry for a roommate. A dark frown carves through the dimples in his cheeks, making them disappear.
