Heat shoots straight through me. “Hey.”
Brilliant. I sound like someone who’s never spoken to a man before.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn't tease. He just studies me with an intensity that makes me want to crawl under the mattress and hide forever. Or crawl into his lap and forget entirely how to breathe. There is no in-between.
“You sleep?” he asks.
“Not really.”
“Me either.”
He says it quietly, like an admission he didn’t plan on giving. My pulse stutters. He stands and finishes lacing his boots, shoulders shifting beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, muscles flexing. He glances toward the window where sunlight bounces off fresh snowbanks.
“Roads are clear,” he says. “Plows came through at dawn. Power company says the grid should be back up.”
Right. Time to leave.
Time to go back to my little cabin. Back to my quiet life. Back to pretending last night didn’t happen — the darkness, the almost-touching, the warmth of his body next to mine, the way his hand closed around mine like he wasn’t letting go unless someone physically pried him off.
I sit up slowly. “That’s good. I should probably head home, then.”
He nods once, but it’s too sharp, too clipped. Not the casual agreement of a man who wants you gone. The controlled retreat of a man trying not to show exactly how much it bothers him.
“You can,” he says. His tone is even, but his jaw flexes. “If you want to.”
If you want to.
Not if you should. Not if you need to.
If you want to.
I swallow, throat tight. “Right. I mean… it was really nice of you to let me stay here last night.”
“Wasn’t a problem.”
“You let me take your bed.”
“You refused to take it.”
“You growled.”
“You smirked.”
Heat flashes across my cheeks. “That’s not the point.”
He finally turns fully toward me, leaning back against the dresser with arms crossed over his chest. He looks too big for the small room, too powerful, too present, like he’s taking up not just space but air.
“What is the point, Lucy?” he asks.
“That I… I don’t want to be a bother.”
“You weren’t.”
“And I don’t want to overstay.”
“You didn’t.”
“And I don’t want you to feel obligated to?—”
