It’s a problem.
Colleen floats by with pie offers and a wink aimed at both of us like she approves of whatever this is and plans to officiate the wedding.
After, he pays before I can reach my wallet. I protest; he ignores me.
Back in the truck, the heater hums, and the windows fog a little with our mingled breath. He doesn’t start the engine. He stares at the windshield like answers are written in frost.
“You can’t keep checking on me,” I say gently.
“Can’t or shouldn’t?” He glances over. His profile in the dash glow is almost too much—strong nose, stubborn mouth, eyes that hold entire storms.
“Both.”
He taps the steering wheel twice. “I’ll try.”
He won’t. And part of me doesn’t want him to.
Outside, snow thickens. The world shrinks to the circle of light from the streetlamp. We breathe in sync without meaningto. The truck is too small again, and his attention is a physical thing sliding along my skin.
“Savannah,” he says, like a warning. Or a plea.
I turn toward him fully. “What?”
His jaw works. “I’m not… good at pretending nothing’s happening.”
“No,” I say, breathless and honest. “You’re not.”
He exhales like relief hurts. “You feel it.”
It’s not a question.
I lift my chin. “You know I do.”
Silence crackles between us, hot and cold at once. He reaches up and tugs his beanie off, drags a hand through his hair, then braces that hand against the back of my headrest without touching me.
“Tell me to stop,” he says. Voice low. Rough. “And I will.”
I don’t tell him anything.
I just sit there, painfully still, heartbeat in my mouth, while he looks at me like I’m the first sunrise he’s seen in a decade.
He leans in—a fraction, then another—then doesn’t. He arrests the motion with a quiet, savage sound, head tipping back to the ceiling like he’s wrestling himself to the floor of the ring.
“I can’t screw this up,” he says, not to me, not really. “I won’t.”
“Then don’t,” I whisper.
He laughs once, broken. “Right. Simple.”
We don’t kiss. He doesn’t touch me. We sit and breathe and burn until my skin tingles and my spine refuses to hold me upright.
He starts the truck with a rough twist. The world widens again.
He drives me the one minute back to my cabin. Leaves the engine running. Walks me to the porch like we’re eighty andetiquette is life and death. Stands one step below me, hands in his jacket pockets so he can’t do anything we’ll both regret.
“Your light’s steady,” he says.
“Thank you for defeating dirt.”
