“Yes.” I lifted my chin. “It’s a perfectly valid wilderness activity.”
He stepped closer.
Close enough that I felt the heat of him against the cold morning air, and that I noticed how my pulse shifted into something uneasy and electric.
“What were you reflecting about?” he asked softly.
Oh no.
He was using the quiet voice.
It was the one that made my bones melt, and my walls tremble.
“Wolves,” I said too quickly. “And, um—bears. And snow. Hoping it melts soon.”
His eyebrow lifted slightly. “Snow.”
“Yes,” I said. “Very reflective subject. Lots of depth.”
He didn’t smile, but something flickered at the edge of his mouth.
“And yesterday,” I added, quieter. “How you… handled things.”
He tilted his head. “Howwehandled things.”
That word,wehit harder than it should have.
My breath fogged in the air. The lake gleamed behind me in thin morning light. The world felt hushed, as if everythingaround us were waiting for one of us to make a mistake, a choice, or a confession.
He stepped closer again.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
And it wasn’t just the question.
It was the tone as if he genuinely cared about the answer.
He wasn’t asking out of politeness or obligation but because something in him needed to know.
I swallowed. My throat felt too tight. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”
He studied me for a long moment, eyes steady, unreadable but softer than last night.
Then he said, “You don’t always have to be the one who’s fine.”
The words slipped right under my ribs.
I turned away, pretending to look at the lake, because looking at him felt too raw. “I know that.”
“You don’t act like it.”
“I don’t need.” I stopped myself before the next words could escape.
But the sentence hung there anyway.
I didn’t need anyone.
A gust of wind pushed across the lake, and Carson stepped closer, instinctively trying to block it. His presence wrapped around me like a second coat.
