The road out of June’s place winds through pines heavy with snow, the headlights carving tunnels through white. Mila’s quiet now too, watching the trees slide past, fingers twisting in her lap like she’s trying to contain whatever is growing inside her.
I reach over and take her hand again, lacing our fingers together.
She inhales sharply.
Not because she doesn’t want it.
Because she does.
“You okay?” I ask, even though my voice comes out rough.
Mila turns her head toward me. “I feel like I’m… walking around inside a storm.”
The honesty hits me in the chest.
I tighten my grip on her hand, thumb stroking once over her knuckles. “You’re safe.”
Her eyes soften. “You always say things like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you mean them.”
I glance at her, and the look on her face—open, nervous, wanting—makes something in me go fierce.
“I do mean them,” I say.
Mila swallows. “Beau…”
My name on her mouth is a problem. It makes me want things I’ve spent years starving out of myself.
I pull into the Bluebird cabin clearing and kill the engine. For a second, neither of us moves.
The cabin glows in the dark—warm windows, a thin ribbon of smoke from the chimney. Safe. Quiet.
Mila’s breathing is shallow. Mine is worse.
I turn slightly in my seat. “Before we go inside…”
Her lashes flutter. “Okay.”
“I’m not going to push you,” I say, voice low. “I’m not going to take anything you don’t want to give.”
Mila’s gaze holds mine, steady despite the tremble in her fingers. “I know.”
“And if you tell me to stop,” I add, jaw tightening, “I stop.”
She nods once. “Beau.”
“What.”
Her mouth curves—soft, brave. “I don’t want you to stop.”
Heat rockets through me, so sharp it feels like pain.
I don’t answer with words.
I get out, move around the truck, and open her door. She steps down into the snow, and the second she’s on her feet I pull her close—one hand firm at her waist, the other braced on the truck beside her, boxing her in without trapping her.
