For now.
And I’m good with it.
Thirteen
Stud
I wake up to the sound of dripping.
Not the storm anymore—no more howling wind, no more icy snow pelting the windows like gravel. Just a soft, steady drip… drip… drip from the eaves outside, like the whole cabin is finally exhaling.
For a second, I lay there and listen. Holley is warm and curled into my side, her breath slow against my chest, hair a dark tumble over my arm. The blankets are kicked half off us. Sometime in the night she must’ve gotten hot and shoved them down; I just went with it and kept her tucked against me.
The storm has been raging for days. We’ve been living in this little bubble—firelight, coffee, shared stories, too many looks that last a second too long. It’s been easy, in a way that nothing in my life ever is. Easy and dangerous all at once.
Now, that drip-drip-drip says it’s ending.
She shifts, making a sleepy sound, and tightens her hand against my chest. I watch her a second longer, then glance past her at the window. The world outside is still mostly white, but the edges are slushy, heavy. Snow sliding off branches. The sky is lighter, not that bruised-gray color it’s been.
If the roads clear today or tomorrow, I’m heading back to Salemburg.
My chest tightens with a weird mix of dread and relief.
I’m not built to stay. Never have been.
But this—this woman sleeping in my arms like it’s the safest place she knows—makes something in me want to forget that fact.
Holley inhales deeply and blinks herself awake, eyes hazy at first, then focusing on me. The way her gaze warms when she realizes where she is yeah, that does something to me I don’t want to name.
“Morning,” she whispers, voice rough with sleep.
“Morning, trouble,” I murmur back.
She smiles, soft and small and real. “Still stuck together?”
“For now.” I tilt my head toward the window. “But the thaw started. Hear it?”
She goes quiet, listening. The drip from the roof, the occasional whoosh of wet snow sliding off somewhere, the distant crack of ice letting go from a branch.
“Sounds like the world’s waking up,” she says.
“Yeah.”
She doesn’t miss the tone in my voice. She never does. Her fingers curl into my shirt again, like she’s anchoring herself—and me.
“How long until you have to go back?” she asks quietly.
“Depends on the roads,” I give her the truth. “If they plow today, tomorrow at the latest. Have business to get back to.”
There it is. Laid out between us like a line in the snow.
Her expression is controlled, but I see it—the little flicker of hurt, the way her eyes shutter like she’s bracing. I hate that I put that there. I knew this was coming. I warned her. No promises. No monogamy. No pretending.
But the warning doesn’t make it easier.
She nods, swallowing once. “Okay.”
I reach up and tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Hey.”
