She sets her spoon down. "Why not?"
I should deflect. Should check the chimney or split wood. Instead, I say, "I built this place the Christmas after I lost my brother."
Her expression shifts. Recognition, not pity.
"Connor. Three years older, better at everything. Five years ago, he and his wife decided to summit the Dragon’s Tooth on Christmas Eve. It’s off the Appalachian Trail, you might’ve heard of it. They wanted sunrise from the top on Christmas morning. I was supposed to go." My hands wrap around the mug. "He texted:Stay home. Spend the holiday with Mom and Dad. We've got this."
I can still see those words.
"Storm came out of nowhere. Wind, ice, zero visibility. They got disoriented on the descent. By the time search and rescue found them…" I stop. Swallow. "I should've been there. Should've gone anyway because I knew that mountain better." I pause. Deep breath. I haven’t talked about this in what feels like forever.
"Every person I pull off this mountain, I'm trying to save them. Trying to save the brother I couldn't."
"I’m so sorry.” She pauses. “You couldn’t have known about the storm.”
"Logically I know that, but knowing doesn't make me feel it."
Her hand moves as though she was about to reach over and grasp mine. A split second later, she puts her hands in her lap, cheeks flushing as though she’s made it awkward between us. She hasn’t.
I want to reach for her, but I don’t. Can’t. Not yet.
I want to keep her here. The thought surfaces without permission, clear and certain. I picture mornings like this one, her bare feet on my kitchen floor, steam rising from coffee I've made just the way she likes it. The retreat reopening next spring feels distant, but I'm already planning. Imagining her walkingthe trails I know by heart, finding her place in the world I've built.
"Good thing you didn’t make it all the way to the retreat. It’s vacant in the winter. The guides who stay up here are those who prefer to be alone on the mountain," I say. I look at the empty bowl in front of her, then stand and step back before I do something stupid like touch her sleep-mussed hair.
Prefer to be alone on the mountain.Preferred. Past tense.
She's eating breakfast in my kitchen, wearing my clothes, trusting me to keep her fed and warm. Five years of teaching weekend warriors to survive, and none of them ever looked at me the way she does right now. Not just like I’m competent, but fascinating. Like watching me move through my own space is better than any view the mountain could offer.
"I love the whole vibe here," she says, locking eyes with me while gesturing toward the living area.
Something tightens in my chest. She’s not just talking about the cabin. There’s something in the way she looks at me when she says it.
For all the time I've spent teaching people to read weather patterns and navigate by landmarks, none of them ever made me feel like this, like I'm not just skilled, but worth admiring.
"The oats were perfect," she adds. "You’re good at this kind of thing."
The statement lands heavier than she probably meant. I shake my head, holding her gaze.
"It was just breakfast."
She takes her bowl to the sink, then walks slowly to the wall, brushing her fingers over one of the window frames. “You’re not just good with rescue missions. You’re good with your hands.”
I don’t answer. Can’t. Not with the image of her saying that while standing in my shirt, light pooling over her legs with thecurve of her thick thighs visible, voice sweetly low and filled with something that feels too close to temptation.
She turns and catches me watching. She doesn’t say anything, only tilts her head, eyes searching mine as if she’s trying to read a language I forgot how to speak.
“You okay?” she asks.
I nod. “Yeah.”
She steps closer. There’s only the table between us now. I should move. I don’t. Her hand brushes mine as she reaches for my now-empty bowl. My breath stutters. I can’t help it. Her skin is soft, warm from sleep and a hot breakfast. I’m not ready for the way that one touch hits like a live wire, waking up my cock. I freeze, not daring to move. Not daring to lose the feel of her skin against mine.
Her gaze drops to where our hands touch. Then, it rises slowly, lashes lifting, mouth parted just slightly. Something slow and thick flickers between us. The moment hangs like something waiting to be claimed.
I don’t want to want this. I never planned to let someone in again, but I do want it. I want her.
I want to kiss her.
