I sit on the edge of the bed and pull off my boots, setting them aside. My flannel comes next, and I toss it onto the chair. The cold presses against the window, but the cabin holds the warmth, and I'm not uncomfortable in just my undershirt.
I lie back on the bed, one arm behind my head, and stare at the ceiling.
The wind howls. The cabin groans. And beneath it all, I hear faint sounds from the main room.
I close my eyes and try not to think about her.
It doesn't work.
I think about the way she looked sitting on the couch, soft and warm in the firelight. The way she smiled at Kinsley. The way her voice steadied when she talked about teaching, like she was reaching for something she'd lost.
I think about her hands. Her eyes. The curve of her shoulders beneath the blanket.
I think about how easily she fit into this space, into Kinsley's world, into the rhythm of my life.
And I think about how dangerous that is.
I've spent years building walls around myself and Kinsley. Keeping people out. Keeping us safe. It's worked. We're fine. We don't need anyone else.
But Wendy's here now, and those walls feel thinner than they should.
I shift onto my side, my hand curling into a fist against the mattress.
This is temporary, I remind myself. The storm will pass. She'll leave. Things will go back to the way they were.
But even as I think it, I know it's not true.
I lie here in the dark, listening to the storm, and let myself admit that I don't want her to leave.
Chapter 5 – Wendy
The howling wind has gentled to a low murmur, and the cabin no longer creaks and groans under the assault. The fire has burned low, glowing embers casting faint orange light across the room.
I sit up slowly, the blanket sliding off my shoulders, and blink into the dimness. Bolt is still curled at my feet, undisturbed. The air is cooler now, the warmth from the fire fading into the edges of the room.
I glance toward the hallway and see him.
He's standing in the doorway to his room, one hand braced against the frame, watching me. Wearing only sleep pants that hang low on his hips, and even in the dim light I can see everything—the solid planes of his chest, the definition of his abs, the thick cords of muscle in his arms and shoulders. Dark hair dusts his chest and trails down his stomach, disappearing beneath the waistband.
My breath catches.
"You're awake," he says quietly.
"Yeah." My voice comes out rougher than I expect. I clear my throat. "The storm—"
"It's easing."
He steps into the room, moving with that same confidence, and I realize I'm staring. At his chest. At the way the muscles shift beneath his skin as he moves. At the faint shadows the firelight casts across his body.
I force my gaze back to his face.
He stops a few feet away, his pale blue eyes holding mine, and for a long moment neither of us speaks.
Then he says, "You should go back to sleep."
"I'm not tired."
"Wendy—"
