Her lips part, breath catching. “You lied by omission.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
“Savannah,” I step toward her, boots crunching. “I didn’t tell you about the letters because I thought I didn’t deserve you. But I never lied about how I felt.”
She looks up slowly, snowflakes catching in her lashes. “And how did you feel?”
“Like I’d been in love with you since I was old enough to know what the word meant.”
Her inhale shudders like a struck chord.
I take another step closer. “And I still feel that way.”
She sways. Actually sways.
Her voice goes soft, raw. “Axel…”
I force myself to hold still, letting her come to me if she wants to. The wind whistles between us, carrying the scent of pine and distant smoke from someone’s chimney.
“You can’t just—say things like that,” she whispers.
“I didn’t plan on saying it.”
“Then why did you?”
“Because you asked.”
Her laugh breaks in her throat. It sounds like she wants to cry. Or kiss me. Or both.
We work again after that, but something shifts. Our movements sync naturally. She hands me a tool before I ask for it. I steady her shoulder when she steps on uneven stone. Thewhole time, the unspoken thing between us heats, grows, thrums under our skin.
A few hours later we break for lunch inside the shed. I built a small wood stove in there back when I thought maybe one day…
I never let myself finish that thought.
Savannah sits across from me on a crate, peeling off her gloves. Her fingers are red from cold, so I reach out and take her hands in mine before she can protest.
Her eyes widen. But she doesn’t pull away.
I rub warmth into her palms, slow and firm. “You should’ve told me when your hands went numb.”
“I didn’t want to slow us down.”
“You’re not slowing anything down.”
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
Her breath trembles. The heat between our hands grows, something like electricity crawling up my arm.
She whispers, “You’re doing it again.”
“What?”
“Looking at me like you want to devour me.”
