“Come here,” I say before I can think.
Her eyes flick to mine. “What?”
I pat the space on the couch beside me. “Sit. You’re hovering like you think I’ll bite.”
Her cheeks pink. “I don’t think you’ll bite.”
“I might,” I murmur, and immediately regret it because it comes out rougher than intended.
Mila freezes for half a second.
Then she sits—careful—leaving a polite gap between us.
Polite gaps are a problem.
I eat two bites of soup, more to occupy my hands than because I’m hungry. “You get the fire going?”
“Eventually,” she says. “It took three attempts and one mild crisis.”
I glance at the fireplace. Flames crackle steady. Good.
“You did good,” I say simply.
Her eyes dart to mine. “That sounds… like praise.”
“It is.”
Her throat bobs when she swallows. “I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”
I look at her—really look.
She’s warm. Soft. Curvy. Her sweater hugs her in a way that makes me want to grab her and pull her into my lap and test whether she tastes like cocoa or courage.
It’s been years since I’ve wanted anything like this.
Years since my body reacted to a woman’s presence like it’s remembering how to live.
Mila shifts, fingers twisting in her lap. “So. Um. How was your day?”
I exhale. “Snowmobiler. Ankle. Ego bruised.”
She winces. “Is he okay?”
“Yeah.”
She nods, quieter. “You’re… good at what you do.”
My jaw tightens. Compliments still hit like foreign objects. “It’s just work.”
“No,” she says gently. “It’s not. You… you have this calm thing. Like you make chaos feel manageable.”
Her words land deeper than they should.
I set my bowl down slowly. “You always talk like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re seeing more than what people show you.”
