Like she belongs in my hands.
My body goes alert in a way it hasn’t in years.
Her eyes widen when she sees me. “Beau.”
My name on her mouth does something dangerous.
“You okay?” I ask, because it’s easier than saying anything else.
She nods quickly. “Yes. I mean—yes. Come in. Unless you’re here to tell me I’m breaking a law by existing up here.”
I step inside, and the warmth hits me, along with a scent—tomato soup and that cocoa sweetness again.
My gaze tracks her without permission. Sweater slipping off one shoulder slightly. Plush curve of her hip. The way she shifts, nervous, like she’s aware of me watching.
I force my eyes to her face.
She’s pretty in a way that feels unfair—soft but strong. Like she’d hold her ground and still let you be gentle.
“I’m not here to arrest you,” I say.
“Good,” she says, then points the spoon at me. “Because I have a weapon.”
I glance at the spoon. “Terrifying.”
Her lips twitch. “You came back.”
I nod once. “Road check.”
She lifts her chin. “Is that the official term?”
“It is if I say it is.”
Mila laughs, low and surprised, like she didn’t mean to but couldn’t stop it. “Okay. Road check. How’s the road?”
“Slick,” I say. “You staying in tonight?”
“I wasn’t planning on running into the wilderness with my spoon, so yes.”
My mouth tugs at the corner despite myself.
She gestures toward the couch. “Do you want… soup? I warmed it up.”
I shouldn’t.
I should say no and leave and keep my life quiet.
But I’m already here. And she’s offering. And the look in her eyes is hopeful, like she’s trying not to want anything and failing.
“Yeah,” I hear myself say. “I’ll take some.”
She beams like she just won something, and it makes my chest ache.
“Sit,” she orders, very brave for someone wielding a spoon.
I sit.
She brings me a bowl and sets it down, then hesitates like she’s unsure where to put herself.
