“Were you?” I ask, voice low.
Her mouth presses into a line. “I was surviving.”
“Surviving isn’t the same as okay.”
She pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “No. It’s not. But sometimes surviving is as close to okay as someone can get.”
I push myself up, propping an arm on my bent knee. “What’s your plan when I go?”
She looks at the fire, not at me. “Go back to work when they reopen. Keep saving. Maybe have a conversation with a property manager about the rentals and having someone to come in and do cleanings once I’m making more. Work on getting some of the jobs off my plate.”
“Maybe work in some time to come to Salemburg,” I let the sentence topple out with far too much hope.
She murmurs, “that would be nice.”
We sit there, the promise hanging between us like a new thread, thin but strong.
She shifts, pulling one knee up, resting her chin on it. “What about you? What’s your plan when you go back?”
“Same as always,” I tell her casually. “Check in with the guys. See who broke what while I was gone. Work on a couple bikes, pick up some jobs, ride when I can.”
“You make it sound simple,” she says.
“Doesn’t mean it’s easy,” I answer. “But it’s mine. I know who I am there.”
The slow burn between us picks up a degree, like someone turned a dial. She feels it too—I can tell by the way she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, by how her tongue darts out to wet her lips, nervous habit I’ve noticed.
I push off the floor and move over, dropping down beside her. The blanket shifts, making room for me like it’s expected this since the first day she stepped foot in this cabin.
“You cold?” I ask.
“A little.”
I lift the edge of the blanket. “Come here then.”
She hesitates only half a second before scooting closer. I tuck her into my side, my arm going around her shoulders, her legs stretching out and tangling with mine under the warmth. Her head finds my chest, like it’s done this a thousand times.
“Better?” I ask quietly.
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “Better.”
The fire pops. The ache in my chest turns into a steady heat.
I could kiss her right now. I want to. But I sit there instead, breathing her in, letting the moment stretch. This isn’t about taking everything just because I can. This is about giving her something solid to lean on when everything else feels uncertain.
She slides her hand over my thigh, fingers curling gently in the fabric of my sweats. “I don’t know how to do this,” she admits suddenly.
“Do what?”
“Whatever this is.” She tilts her head back to look at me. “I don’t know how to be close to someone without it turning into expectations. Without it feeling like a test I’m going to fail.”
I tighten my arm around her. “Then we don’t make it a test.”
She huffs a breath that’s almost a laugh. “That simple, huh?”
“For us? Yeah,” I say. “We’ve been pretty honest so far. No reason to stop now.”
Her gaze searches mine. “You really don’t want more? From anyone?”
