The memory of our kiss lingers—unexpected and unsettling in its intensity. I’ve never kissed a man before. Never wanted to. Yet when Owen’s mouth found mine in the darkness, something fundamental shifted inside me.
I’d carefully extracted myself from the bed, gathered my clothes, and headed for the shower. Under the hot spray, I’d examined this new awareness, like a symptom requiring diagnosis.
By the time I’d dressed and glanced back at Owen’s sleeping form, I’d reached no conclusions except that I wanted to let him rest. His hangover would be brutal enough without me waking him for an awkward conversation neither of us was prepared to have.
But Ava had other plans.
When Owen didn’t show up at breakfast, she went upstairs and dragged him down.
“I don’t care if you’re dying,” I’d heard her say. “It’s your fault you drank so much. It’s my engagement weekend and you’re not spending it in bed.”
Now, watching Owen wince as Zara’s laugh pierces the chatter, I find myself annoyed by Ava’s insistence. He needs more time to recover. More sleep. More care.
“The waterfall is supposed to be amazing,” Naya says. “According to the trail guide, the water has special energetic properties. I brought bottles to collect some for my crystal cleansing.”
“I heard it’s a moderate hike,” Bryce adds, unfolding a map. “About three miles each way, with some elevation gain toward the end.”
Owen’s face pales further at this information, and he closes his eyes. His knuckles whiten around his coffee cup.
“Owen, I was thinking we could buddy up,” Zara says. “I’d love your perspective on that design challenge I mentioned yesterday.”
He manages a tight smile that looks more like a grimace. “Sure,” he mumbles, though his tone suggests he’d rather dive headfirst off the waterfall than make conversation for six miles.
Something hot and possessive flares in my chest. The thought of Owen struggling through the hike while Zara chatters at him—while he’s suffering—grates against a protective instinct I didn’t know I possessed.
Without analyzing my motivations, I push my chair back and stand. Conversations continue around the table as I make my way to the breakfast buffet. The lodge’s commitment to sustainability extends to their food service—all local, organic ingredients with detailed sourcing information displayed on small cards. I grab a clean plate and begin loading it with the greasiest items available.
Fried eggs. Buttered sourdough toast. Hash browns with golden crusts. I select each item with surgical precision, bringing the same focus I apply when preparing for a complex procedure. Between selections, I glance back at Owen. He’s now resting his forehead in his palm. His other hand still clutches his coffee, which must be getting cold. No one else seems to notice—or care—how much he’s suffering.
I return to the table with my loaded plate and set it down in front of him with enough force to make him look up. His bloodshot eyes widen in surprise as they meet mine for the first time this morning.
“Eat this,” I say, my voice pitched low enough that only he can hear, but with unmistakable authority.
He stares at the plate, then back at me. “I don’t think I can—”
I cut him off with a look—the same one I use on residents who question my instructions in the OR. “You’ll feel better. Eat.”
A flush spreads across his cheeks, bringing the first hint of color to his face since he sat down. Something uncertain and vulnerable flickers in his eyes. For a moment, I think he might refuse and push the plate away with some snippy comment about not needing my help.
Instead, he picks up a fork and takes a small, tentative nibble of hash brown. Then another. The conversation continues around us, but my attention remains fixed on Owen, watching as he works his way through the meal.
With each bite, something in me settles. It’s the same satisfaction I feel when a surgical plan executes perfectly, when bleeding stops under my hands, when a patient’s vital signs strengthen after a procedure. But this is different too—morepersonal, more primitive. I’m taking care of him. And he’s letting me.
“We should leave in about thirty minutes,” Ava announces to the table. “The hike takes about two hours each way, so we’ll be back for a late lunch before the pottery class.”
Owen’s hand falters as he lifts his coffee cup, but his movements are less pained now. The food is doing its job. He’s eaten most of the eggs and hash browns, made a decent dent in the toast. When he sets his cup down, his eyes meet mine again, and this time there’s something like gratitude in them—mixed with confusion and that same warm flush that keeps rising to his cheeks whenever our gazes lock. Does he remember last night?
Bryce’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. “What do you think, Slade?”
“About?”
“Whether we should take the lower trail or the upper one to the waterfall. Upper is steeper but shorter. Lower is longer but gives better views of the valley.”
“Lower,” I say without hesitation, glancing at Owen. “No need to push too hard.”
Bryce nods, folding the map. “Lower it is.”
As breakfast winds down, the group begins gathering their things. Ava distributes eco-friendly water bottles from her tote bag. Bryce consults with a lodge staff member about trail conditions. Zara applies sunscreen to her bare arms while chatting with Naya.
