She blinked, then laughed.
Greyson stirred, groaning faintly as he rolled onto his back. “Is the world ending,” he murmured, with his eyes still closed, “or merely objecting to your itinerary?”
She laughed more fully now. “It appears the weather has strong opinions.”
Rain lashed the glass in earnest, the room dimming as clouds swallowed the morning light. Whatever plans she had been forming scattered at once, undone not by chaos, but by circumstance.
Greyson opened one eye and regarded the window. “I believe,” he said thoughtfully, “that we are quite trapped.”
Hazel watched the rain for a moment, then turned back to him. “Yes, I believe we are.”
Greyson did not reply with words.
Instead, his arm slid around her waist, and before she could protest, he pulled her decisively back against him, the covers rustling as she was captured once more in the tangle of sheets and limbs.
“Greyson!” she squealed, half-laughing and half-startled. “You cannot simply?—”
“I can,” he said calmly, tightening his hold as though to prove the point. “The rain has spoken.”
She wriggled uselessly, laughter bubbling out of her despite herself. “The rain has no authority over my plans.”
“It has very strong opinions,” he replied, nuzzling briefly against her temple. “And it says we are to remain precisely where we are… in bed.”
Hazel craned her neck to look at him. “Inside,” she corrected primly, but she was on the verge of chuckling again. “Not in bed. Inside could include reading by the fire. Or a game of cards. Or?—”
He hummed thoughtfully. “You are negotiating.”
“I am adapting,” she corrected him. “A skill I have perfected over many years.”
Greyson smiled, wickedly pleased. “Then adapt to this.”
He shifted, drawing her closer still, until escape was plainly impossible. Hazel sighed theatrically and let her head fall back against his shoulder.
“You are enjoying this far too much,” she said.
“Immensely,” he admitted. “It is not often the world conspires to keep you still.”
She laughed softly, the sound settling easily between them. “I suppose,” she said after a moment, “that one might allow the rain a small victory.”
“Excellent,” he murmured. “We shall be very gracious about it.”
They lingered a little longer, the rain tapping steadily at the windows as though determined to keep them honest. Hazel lay half-curled against him, her cheek resting on his chest, while listening to the calm, unhurried rhythm of his breathing. There was no rush to speak, and no need to fill the space. The closeness felt easy and natural in a way that would once have startled her. When she finally shifted, it was with a contented sigh rather than reluctance.
“We should rise,” she said, though she made no immediate move to do so.
“And yet we have not.” Greyson smiled into her hair. “A tragedy.”
Nevertheless, they did rise, slowly and indulgently, and then dressed together in the quiet intimacy of the small chamber. Hazel braided her hair while he fastened his cuffs, the simple domesticity of it all settling warmly in her chest. This, she thought, was what she had never known she wanted: not grandeur, not excitement, but ease.
They descended the narrow stairs hand in hand, the scent of warm bread and woodsmoke greeting them before they reached the common room.
“Ah!” came a cheerful voice at once. “There you are, my dears.”
The innkeeper emerged from behind the counter. She was a small, round woman with silver hair tucked beneath a cap and eyes that sparkled with good humor. “I thought you might sleep late, what with the rain and all.”
Hazel smiled at her instinctively. “Good morning.”
“You are our only guests this weekend,” the woman continued, bustling toward them, “so I took the liberty of making something a little special.”
