The first thing I felt was the sheets.
Thick, soft flannel, warmer than anything I owned, brushed against my legs and arms. Definitely not my thin cotton set. And the pillow under my cheek smelled like cedar and clean laundry, nothing like the lavender-scented fabric spray I used at home.
My eyes blinked open to a dim, quiet room. Heavy curtains blocked most of the light, leaving everything in a muted gray glow. It was quiet except for the low hum of a space heater in the corner and the soft groan of the cabin settling into the cold.
Then it hit me. I was in Kingston’s bedroom. Last night really happened. The man I’d written off as dead to me was very much alive.
I pushed up slowly, wincing as the memories flooded back… me showing up like some enraged ghost of Christmas Past, the look on Kingston’s face when he saw me, our fight, the letter, the storm swallowing the road, my SUV spinning into a snowbank and trapping me here. I let out a low groan as I scrubbed a hand over my face.
The sweatshirt I was wearing… oh yeah, his shirt… slipped down my shoulder as I sat up, the soft cotton brushing my skin and releasing more of that cedar-and-him scent. It made something deep in my chest twist hard.
What was I doing here? In his bed, wrapped in his sheets, wearing his shirt? And why didn’t it feel wrong?
My nose picked up on the faint scent of coffee. Oh god, was he making coffee for me? My body reacted before my brain could stop it. Something twisted low in my stomach and memories pushed through the cracks I tried so hard to keep sealed.
I sat up straighter, squared my shoulders, and reminded myself I wasn’t that girl anymore. I wasn’t the seventeen-year-old who would’ve followed Kingston Raines anywhere he went. I wasn’t the nineteen-year-old who wrote him letters he never answered. I wasn’t the twenty-one-year-old who cried herself to sleep when his silence finally broke her.
I was an adult. A grown woman. Someone who demanded answers. And he was going to give them to me whether he wanted to or not.
I stood, shivering as the cabin’s floorboards chilled my feet even through my thick socks. My fingers brushed the sealed envelope sitting on the bedside table. I hadn’t had the nerve to open it last night. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Tucking the envelope under my arm, I headed toward the kitchen.
Kingston stood by the stove, coffee mug in hand, watching the snow batter the windows. He looked completely worn out and rough around the edges. Like the weight of yesterday hadn’t let him sleep, either. He turned when he heard me. His eyes… those impossibly deep blue eyes I used to lose myself in… hit me like a fist to the gut.
“Morning,” he said, his voice low and coarse like he’d swallowed gravel. “There’s coffee.”
I crossed my arms over my chest again, suddenly hyperaware of his sweatshirt hanging off my shoulder. “I didn’t come here for coffee.”
“I know.”
“And I didn’t come for conversation.”
His jaw flexed. “I know that too.”
“Good,” I snapped.
He nodded once, slow and controlled, then turned back to the stove like the sight of me didn’t crack him open. Like I wasn’t standing here holding the letter he’d written me while he was in prison.
I hated how calm he was. Hated that he always looked like he was holding himself together with nothing but grit and stubbornness.
I moved to the front window and pulled the curtain back. A wall of white stared back at me. My SUV was almost invisible under the snow. Drifts piled halfway up the porch railing. The sky was a thick gray smudge, the kind that meant the storm had no plans to stop anytime soon.
I swallowed hard. “Great, just great.”
Kingston moved closer and stared out the same window. “It got worse overnight.”
“Obviously.”
“You’re not driving anywhere today.”
He wasn’t wrong, and I hated it. I spun on him. “We need to talk.”
He nodded once, slow and resigned, like he was walking into a fight he’d lose on purpose. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Talk.”
Anger flared hot in my chest. He didn’t get to be calm. He didn’t get to be patient. He didn’t get to stand there like some melancholy mountain statue while I unraveled.
I held up the envelope. “This,” I said, my voice shaking despite everything I did to steady it, “is too many years too late.”
He swallowed, his eyes never leaving mine. “I know.”
