"You're cold," I say, my voice rougher than I intend.
"A little."
"Come here."
I don't know what possesses me to say it, but I do, and before I can take it back, she's shifting closer, tucking herself against my side. Her head comes to rest against my shoulder, and I feel the soft weight of her body pressing into mine.
My arm moves around her almost automatically, settling across her shoulders, and she sighs—this quiet, contented sound that does something dangerous to my self-control.
We sit like that for a long time, neither of us speaking, just breathing together in the firelight.
I can feel every point of contact between us, her side against mine, her head on my shoulder, her hand resting lightly on my knee. It's not overtly sexual, but it's intimate in a way that feels more dangerous than desire.
This feels like trust.
Like she's giving me something fragile and precious, and I'm terrified I'm going to drop it.
"Joseph?"
Her voice is soft, barely above a whisper.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For telling me."
I look down at her, and she tilts her head up to meet my eyes. Her face is so close I can see the faint freckles across her nose, the way her lips are slightly parted, the way her breath catches when our eyes lock.
I want to kiss her.
I want to close the few inches between us and press my mouth to hers. I want to feel her soften against me, to taste the warmth of her, to stop pretending that this is just proximity and circumstance.
But I can't.
Because if I kiss her, everything changes. If I kiss her, I can't pretend this is temporary. I can't convince myself that she's just a guest, just a mistake in the booking system, just someone passing through.
If I kiss her, I have to admit that I want her to stay.
And I don't know if I can survive that.
So I pull back slightly, just enough to break the moment, and I see the flicker of hurt in her eyes before she hides it.
"We should go to bed," I say, my voice strained. "It's late."
She nods, pulling away.
We move through the cabin in silence, banking the fire, turning off lights, preparing for a night that suddenly feels too long and too intimate.
When we reach the bedroom, the reality of the situation hits me all over again.
One bed.
Demi doesn't hesitate. She climbs in on the far side, fully clothed, still wrapped in my flannel shirt, and pulls the blankets up to her chin. I stand there for a moment, frozen, before forcing myself to move.
I lie down on my side of the bed, as far from her as the mattress will allow, staring at the ceiling.
The space between us feels impossibly small and impossibly vast at the same time.
"Goodnight, Joseph," she whispers.
