He goes still. Absolutely still, like he’s afraid if he moves, something inside him will crack open too far.
“I don’t deserve—” He stops. His throat works. “I don’t want anyone close. It’s easier that way.”
“Safer?” I ask.
He lifts his eyes to mine, and something in them looks stripped—bare, haunting, and so deeply tired. “Yes.”
I nod slowly. “I understand.”
Something tender loosens in his expression. Something like disbelief. Or relief.
I don’t touch him first. He touches me.
His hand grazes mine—just barely. Almost like he didn’t mean to. But he doesn’t pull away. And when I turn my hand over, he lets our fingers curl together.
My pulse trembles. His does too. I can feel it.
“Ava,” he whispers, and my name sounds like something new in his mouth—like a confession, like a question, like a beginning.
I lean in—not much. A breath. A heartbeat. Close enough that the fire warms our skin in twin glows, close enough that his breath ghosts my lips.
He hesitates, but I don’t.
I press my lips to his—slow, soft, warm. He freezes for a second, caught between instinct and uncertainty, then exhales against my mouth, shuddering once before he kisses me back.
It’s not urgent. It’s not wild. It’s careful.
Devastatingly careful.
His fingers rise to cup the back of my neck, thumb brushing my skin like he’s terrified I’ll break apart beneath his hand. My hands slide up his chest—heat and muscle and the quiet tremble of a man who has been alone too long.
When he pulls back, foreheads touching, his voice is barely a breath.
“I don’t know how to do this.”
“Me neither,” I whisper.
“We shouldn’t.”
“Probably not.”
He swallows, eyes closed. “But I want to.”
I don’t answer in words. I just stand, take his hand, and lead him toward his bedroom.
The fire crackles softly behind us. The storm deepens outside.
Inside the tiny cabin, something else begins—quiet, tender, inevitable.
The door closes.
Chapter Seventeen
Jax
The next morning moves differently—too carefully, like the whole cabin is holding its breath. Or maybe that’s just me.
The world outside is drowned in white, the storm finally tapering off, leaving snow stacked high against the windows. The woodstove hums. Coffee brews. Violet chatters about a science project. Everything looks normal. Sounds normal.
