“What’s that?”
“Being here with you.”
The fire pops softly, a log shifting as the logs settle.
Rhett stretches his arm along the back of the couch, close but not crowding me. Letting me decide how much space I need. I close the gap without hesitation, tucking myself into his side, my cheek resting against his shoulder.
“Feels right, doesn’t it?”
A part of me hates to admit it but, “Yeah. It does.”
“So,” I say lightly. “Is this where you tell me you’re secretly a survivalist and have a generator hidden in the shed?”
He huffs a laugh. “Afraid not. I do, however, have enough canned soup to survive the apocalypse and approximately twelve pounds of pasta.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Still hungry?” He tilts his head, pressing a kiss to my hair.
“Always,” I admit.
We end up in the kitchen, the firelight throwing warm shadows across the room. Rhett moves with quiet confidence—lighting the gas stove, pulling out two cans of soup from the pantry.
I sit at the small table, knees tucked up beneath me, watching him.
Domestic Rhett is almost sexier than naked Rhett making my toes curl.
“What?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Just… you’re very competent.”
His mouth twitches. “You say that like it’s a surprise.”
“I work with books,” I remind him. “A man who can fix drywall, coach hockey, and make breakfast during a power outage feels suspiciously fictional.”
“Well,” he says, sliding a pan onto the burner, “don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
Once the soup is warm and poured into two bowls, we sit together and eat, slowly.
When we’re done, Rhett refills our mugs with more coffee and we move back to the couch to watch the fire burn.
“This is the part where I should probably check my phone,” I say.
He groans. “Don’t ruin it.”
I laugh but still pull it from my pocket. No service. No notifications. Nothing pulling me anywhere else.
“Looks like the universe agrees with you,” I say, setting it aside.
Rhett’s thumb traces lazy circles against my arm. “Good.”
We talk then—really talk. About nothing and everything. He tells me stories about growing up in Mistletoe Bay, about sneaking onto the frozen bay as a kid before his mom caught him and grounded him for a week. I tell him about leaving for college, about the way I promised myself I would always come back once I figured out my life.
“I didn’t think I’d miss it,” I admit. “This place.”
“And now?” he asks gently.
“I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.”
