But my chest aches anyway.
Beau crosses to the bed and cups my jaw, thumb brushing my lip like he remembers it intimately.
“I’ll be back,” he says, voice low. “Stay here.”
I try to smile. “Bossy.”
He leans closer until his forehead touches mine. “Protective.”
My breath catches.
He kisses me once—gentle, promising—then pulls away and grabs his jacket.
I watch him move through the cabin like he belongs in it, like he belongs with me.
And the thought hits so hard it steals my air:
I want him to belong with me.
That’s when the fear wakes up.
Big and sharp and cruel.
Because wanting Beau doesn’t feel like a crush or a fling or a fun story I’ll tell my friends later.
Wanting Beau feels like stepping off a ledge and trusting that something will catch me.
My whole life, I’ve been the woman men liked… but didn’t keep.
Too curvy. Too emotional. Too much.
And Beau?
Beau looks at me like I’m exactly enough.
That kind of gaze can change you.
And if it changes me—if I let it—then losing it will destroy me.
Beau pauses by the door, hand on the knob, like he senses the shift in me.
“Mila.”
“Yeah?” My voice is too bright.
He studies me. “Lock it behind me.”
I nod. “I will.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “And eat.”
I give him a salute. “Yes, sir.”
The corner of his mouth lifts—barely.
Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut.
The cabin quiets again.
