“You with me?” he asks, voice rough.
“Never been better,” I say.
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest into mine, and holds me tighter.
After a minute, I shift, feeling the hard, thick evidence of exactly how much he wants me pressing against my hip. Guilt pricks.
“Brooks—”
“Not tonight, sweetheart.” He cups my face, forces me to meet his eyes. They’re dark, blazing, but steady. “Tonight was for you. I needed you to feel what you do to me, what you are to me. The rest can wait until you’re sure.”
He brushes a soft kiss across my lips, tasting like me and him and everything I didn’t know I was missing.
And in the quiet, wrapped in the scent of his aftershave, rain, and my arousal, I believe him.
The tenderness in his voice makes my heart swell. I kiss him, tasting myself on his lips, and the intimacy of it makes my chest ache with something I'm not ready to name.
He helps me dress slowly, his touch reverent, then pulls the throw blanket over both of us. I curl against his chest, my head tucked under his chin, and his arms band around me.
"The power's still out."
"I'm not leaving." His voice allows no argument. The certainty in it wraps around me like armor.
Outside, the storm continues, but the worst has passed. Thunder rolls distant, fading away. In here, everything is warm and safe and right.
"Brooks?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For staying. For being patient. For making me feel safe. Wanted. Seen."
"You are all those things," he says quietly and kisses the top of my head. "And more."
I fall asleep to his heartbeat, wrapped in his scent and the certainty that something has shifted. He's found his way through my walls, and I'm letting him stay.
I wake to cold seeping through the blanket.
The candles have burned low, casting barely enough light to see by. Brooks is solid and warm beneath me, but my shoulders are freezing where they're exposed to the air. The couch is too small for both of us. My neck aches from the angle, and his legs are cramped against the armrest.
This is no way to actually sleep.
"Hey." His voice is low and rough with sleep. His hand runs up and down my spine, generating warmth. "You're shivering."
"I'm okay."
"You're not." He sits up carefully, keeping me steady against his chest. "And this couch is terrible for both of us."
I blink up at him, sleep-fogged and confused. "What are we supposed to do? The power's still out."
He's quiet for a moment, his jaw working like he's deciding something. Then: "Come home with me."
My heart kicks hard. "What?"
"My cabin. I’m twenty minutes from here and not on this power grid. A blown transformer in town won’t impact me. I have heat, a real bed, and you'll actually be able to sleep." His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. "I'll take the couch there. You get the bed. But I need to know you're warm and safe."
The offer hangs between us. Going to his place feels significant, like crossing some invisible line from this bookstore where we've been existing in a bubble into his actual life. His private space.
But I'm freezing. And exhausted. And the way he's looking at me as though my comfort matters more than anything else makes the decision easy.
