Rain lashed the windows, and thunder cracked overhead, shaking the shutters. The fire had died down to embers, and the chill of damp earth crept through the hut like an unwelcome guest.
Frances stood near the hearth, arms wrapped around herself. Her cloak had dried, but her dress still clung to her in uncomfortable damp patches.
“We will not get far in this,” Johnathan said, watching the storm from the small window.
She turned. “You are suggesting we stay here?”
“Only until the worst passes. We would be mad to venture out in this.”
She nodded slowly, then approached him. “So we wait.”
He looked at her. “Not quite the thrilling escape you imagined, is it?”
“It is exactly what I imagined. Terrifying. Uncertain. Cold.”
He grinned. “You forgot the part where your rescuer is outrageously pleasing to look at.”
Frances rolled her eyes. “I will add that to the ledger of exaggerations.”
He moved to the hearth, adding what little dry wood remained to the fire. Flames flared, casting golden light across the stone walls.
She watched him from the corner of her eye, her mind drifting dangerously toward thoughts she had tried to avoid: the curve of his mouth when he smiled, the intensity of his gaze, the maddening way he infuriated and reassured her all at once.
She turned away, frustrated with herself.
“When we were children,” she said suddenly, “I used to think you would grow up to be a hero.”
He paused, surprised. “A hero?”
She nodded. “You were brave. Wild. Unafraid of anything.”
“And now?”
She hesitated. “Now I think you are something else entirely.”
He approached her slowly, deliberately. “Something better? Or worse?”
She lifted her chin. “That depends on what you do next.”
The hut, for all its chill, felt oppressively warm. Or perhaps it was only the heat building between them. Frances looked up at him, her voice low. “If you kiss me, Johnathan, there is no going back.”
The air between them didn’t move. Neither did she.
“I know,” he said.
“This cannot be a mistake,” she said.
“It is not.” He reached out, brushing a damp curl from her cheek. “Tell me to stop,” he said, his thumb brushing her cheek with exquisite care. “And I will.”
She leaned forward.
And, he kissed her.
It was not tentative. Not unsure. It was the kind of kiss forged from years of longing, from all the words unspoken and moments stolen. His hands came to her waist, drawing her closer, as hers slid to his shoulders. The world outside disappeared. The storm. The fear. The flight.
There was only this.
The kiss lingered—slow, deep, filled with all the things neither had dared say aloud. When they broke apart, breathless, Frances did not move away. Instead, she lingered, her fingers curling slightly against the back of his neck, as if anchoring herself to the moment. Her eyes searched his face, half-expecting doubt or regret—but there was none. She stayed in the circle of his arms, her forehead resting lightly against his.
