“People.” The word tastes like gravel. “Closeness. Noise. Warmth.” My throat works around something fragile. “You and Violet… you’re a lot.”
Her lips part, a flicker of something like understanding crossing her face. “We can be,” she admits. “But you don’t have to handle us alone. You don’t have to handle us at all.”
My heartbeat goes uneven.
The air shifts—heavy, charged, electric in that way storms feel before they crack open the sky. She steps closer, just a half-step, but it’s enough. Too much. Not enough. I don’t know anymore.
Her eyes search mine, slow and deliberate. “If you want space,” she murmurs, “you don’t have to run. You can just… tell me.”
I should. I know I should. Instead, my gaze drops—to her mouth.
Her breath catches as she notices.
The tension snaps tight enough to hum. The space between us collapses inch by aching inch. She tilts her chin up just slightly, barely, like her body betrays her before her mind can stop it.
I move without realizing I’m moving.
My hand lifts—halfway—toward her hip, her waist, the warm line of her neck. Just enough to feel the heat radiating off her. Just enough to see her eyes go soft and startled and wanting.
And then—
I jerk back like I’ve touched fire.
Her brows knit, hurt flickering fast before she schools it away. “Jax—”
“I can’t.” My voice is rough, scraped raw by things I don’t say. “I’m not—this is not—”
“You don’t get to shut me out in the middle of a sentence,” she fires back, stepping toward me again.
“I’m trying not to hurt you.”
That stops her. Fully.
Something fragile ripples across her expression. She takes a slow breath. “You’re not hurting me,” she whispers. “You’re confusing me. There’s a difference.”
I can’t stay in this room another second.
Before she can read me further—before I can betray myself again—I step past her, moving fast, almost tripping over the damned pantry door.
“I have to check the generator,” I mutter.
“It’s working fine,” she calls after me.
“I know.”
I shut the cabin door behind me, letting the cold slap my face until the heat in my chest dulls into something bearable.
Inside, I hear her sigh. And I hate how much I want to go back in and kiss her.
Chapter Fourteen
Ava
Winter Carnival arrives like it always does—loud, bright, and stunningly unbothered by the fact that half the town spent last week buried under a blizzard.
By sunset, Main Street glows under strings of lanterns made from ice and tea lights. Kids tear across the snow-packed road like gremlins. Someone set up a cocoa tent that smells like cinnamon and nostalgia. The air tastes like sugar and frost.
I love it every year.
