“Most nights,” he says.
Something about that makes my stomach flutter.
Most nights.
Like there are nights he doesn’t.
Like he has a life outside the station.
I should not want to know details. I absolutely want to know details.
“Do you want to…” I start, then stop because why would I ask him anything ever? “Never mind.”
Beau’s gaze sharpens. “What.”
It’s not a question. It’s a command dressed as one.
And it does something to me. Something stupid and warm.
“I was just going to ask if you wanted to come in,” I say quickly. “For… a minute. So you’re not freezing. And also I have… um…”
I glance at the kitchen behind me like it might offer answers.
“I have hot cocoa,” I finish, because that feels safe and non-flirty and not at all like I’m inviting him into my cabin like the heroine in a romance novel with terrible decision-making.
Beau hesitates.
The snow falls thicker around us, soft and relentless, and for a second it feels like the whole world is holding its breath.
Then he says, “Two minutes.”
“Two minutes,” I repeat like that’s a normal thing to say.
He steps inside.
My cabin immediately becomes eighty percent smaller.
It’s not that he’s huge—though he is, annoyingly—but it’s thepresence.The way he moves like he’s aware of every corner, every shadow, every possible threat.
And I hate how safe it makes me feel.
I close the door behind him and realize I’m suddenly very aware that I am alone in a cabin in the woods with a very attractive mountain rescue man.
I clear my throat. “Okay. Cocoa.”
He sets his boots neatly by the door without being asked, which is… weirdly hot?
I hustle to the kitchen, pretending I’m not short-circuiting.
I grab two mugs from the shelf. One saysBITE MEand the other saysHAPPY PLACE.
I stare at them like they’re a moral test.
I hand himHAPPY PLACEbecause I am mature.
He takes it, gaze flicking to the mug. “This yours?”
“Yes,” I lie, because I cannot admit I bought it at Target during a breakdown.
