“Holley,” he says slowly, “I understand if that changes something for you.”
I shake my head, surprising even myself at how comfortable I am with this simply because he was honest. “No. It doesn’t.”
His brows pull together. “You sure?”
“I spent years wanting to be someone’s whole world,” I say. “And losing myself in the process. I’m not ready for serious. I’m not ready for expectations. I’m not ready for someone depending on me to be anything again.”
He studies me like he’s surprised. Like he didn’t expect my answer.
“It’s actually comforting,” I continue. “The idea that you’re not asking me to be perfect or healed or committed. I don’t think I could do any of that. Not right now.”
His shoulders ease.
The tension in the air shifts.
Warms.
Deepens.
“So you’re okay with this?” he asks, gesturing between us. “Whatever it is.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “For the first time in a long time I feel like I can breathe. Because you’re not trying to own me or fix me.”
He exhales slowly, like the honesty affects him more than he expected.
“We take this slow,” he says. “No promises. No cages.”
“Just connection,” I say.
“Just connection,” he repeats.
Our eyes hold.
The snow keeps falling outside.
Inside, something steadier forms between us—something shaped by the quiet truth that neither of us is ready for more but both of us want what we have right in front of us.
He nudges my knee. “Come here.”
I shift toward him. He pulls a blanket over us and settles me against his chest. His warmth sinks through me, soothing and grounding, even without touching anything more intimate.
“Holley?” he murmurs.
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad the storm trapped you here.”
I smile into his shirt. “Me too.”
And for the next two days—through the blizzard, the flickering firelight, the shared meals, the quiet confessions, and the slow, unhurried nearness—we learn each other in a way that isn’t fast or explosive.
It’s steady.
Warm.
Dangerous in a gentle way.
The kind of closeness that doesn’t demand anything but offers everything we’re both capable of giving.
