Carson was getting the fire going as he crouched in front of me, studying my face with a focus that made it impossible to breathe normally.
“Don’t scare me like that,” he said quietly.
My heart squeezed. “I didn’t plan to.”
He gave me a look so tender it nearly unraveled me. “I know.”
For a moment, the smallest breath of a moment, there was nothing but that look. The memory of last night. The heat that rose between us was like a second fire.
Carson straightened so fast he nearly slipped again. I hid my face behind my hands.
“I’m going to gather more wood,” he muttered, clearly needing a second to breathe.
“I’ll start the soup and sandwiches.” I followed him with my eyes, watching the way his shoulders moved.
Jake and Emma snuck to an area of pines that were more private while I unlocked our food barrels and grabbed some bread.
When Carson returned with an armful of kindling, the first thing he asked was, “Any dizziness? Any numbness?”
“I’m fine,” I promised. “It’s not like I hit my head.”
Because despite the slip, despite the cold, despite the embarrassment, I had never felt safer in my life than in the moment his arms wrapped around me as I fell.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a strange blend of normalcy and electricity. The Butterfields chattered over lunch, thrilled by the romantic lake rescue event. Jake reenacted my slip twice, each time with more dramatic flair. Emma kept winking at us.
But it was Carson who unsettled me the most.
Every time our hands brushed, he stilled. Every time I laughed, he looked too long. Every time I met his eyes with even the smallest spark of last night lingering between us, he swallowed hard and looked away.
Because tenderness shook him, and he hadn’t expected it.
I knew this because the same thing happened to me.
Because maybe, I dared to hope, he wanted more.
When Emma stepped away to photograph a perfect shot near the woods, and Jake followed, Carson finally sat beside me, our knees nearly touching.
“You scared me,” he said softly. “More than I expected.”
My breath hitched. “I’m okay.”
“I know. But that’s not the point.”
“What is the point?” I asked quietly.
He looked at me, and the world stilled around us.
“That I don’t know how to do this halfway,” he said. “Not with you.”
And something inside me shifted into a warm uncertainty that both terrified and thrilled me.
Wind rustled the pines, and my pulse beat loud in my ears.
I didn’t say anything.
Not yet.
But I didn’t look away either, and Carson’s small smile told me that, for now, that was enough.
