"No." She turns in the circle of my arm, tilting her face up. "Why?"
"Just checking." I trace my thumb across her cheek. "You were shaking so hard when you got here. Want to make sure you're warm enough."
"I'm perfect." Her hand comes up to rest against my chest, right over my heart. "More than perfect, actually."
The words settle something in me that's been restless since I realized that having her here, in my cabin, in my bed, in mylife—it's not temporary. Not for me.
I'm keeping her.
The thought should probably scare me. I've spent years alone by choice, convinced I was better off that way. Safer that way.
But looking at her now, her face tilted up to mine, trust and want and something deeper shining in her eyes… All I feel is certainty.
I lean down and kiss her. Slow and thorough, tasting her, feeling her melt against me. Her hands slide up to curl around my neck, and for a long moment there's nothing but this—her softnessagainst my hardness, the give of her mouth, the quiet sound she makes when I deepen the kiss.
When I finally pull back, we're both breathing harder. She looks dazed, lips swollen, and I have to resist the urge to carry her back to bed and pick up where we left off an hour ago.
"Stew's gonna burn if you keep doing that," she murmurs, but there's heat in her eyes that says she wouldn't mind if it did.
"Then I'll make more." I brush my lips against her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. "Worth it."
She laughs and pushes gently at my chest. "Go. Set the table or something. Make yourself useful."
I let her go, but not before landing one more quick kiss on her mouth. She swats at me halfheartedly, color rising in her cheeks, and turns back to the stove.
I pull down bowls, slice the bread, pour water. Simple tasks that feel weighted with meaning because she's here. Because we're doing them together.
We're setting everything out when her phone buzzes on the counter.
The sound cuts through the quiet like a knife. We both freeze, staring at the device where it sits next to the cutting board. It's been dead since she arrived, battery drained, and I haven't offered to charge it. Neither of us has mentioned it.
Now it's lit up, vibrating insistently. One bar of signal flickering in the corner of the screen.
Nicola's face goes pale. "I didn't—I thought it was dead."
"Storm probably knocked out the cell tower." I keep my voice even, controlled, even though something cold and territorial is coiling in my gut. "Must've just come back online."
She stares at the phone like it's a live grenade. "I should—I need to—"
"You don't need to do anything you don't want to do." I move to her side, steady and certain. "It's your phone. Your choice."
She picks it up with shaking hands. The screen lights up with notifications—dozens of missed calls, texts, voicemails.
I watch her scroll through them, see the way her jaw tightens, the way her breathing goes shallow. I don't need to read them to know what they say. Demands. Accusations. The same controlling bullshit wrapped in the language of concern.
"He's been calling since yesterday morning," she whispers. "Over and over."
"You gonna call him back?"
She looks up at me, eyes wide and frightened. "I don't know. I should, right? I mean, he's probably worried, and I just disappeared, and—"
"Nicola." I cup her face in both hands, forcing her to focus on me. "Do youwantto call him back?"
"No." The word comes out small but certain. "No, I don't."
"Then don't."
"But he'll—he won't stop. He'll keep looking. He'll—"
