I should feel panic. I should feel the familiar urge to retreat, to put distance between myself and this vulnerability.
But I don't.
Instead, I feel steady. Like something that's been loose inside me for years has finally clicked into place.
Demi shifts slightly, making a small sound in her sleep, and my arm tightens around her instinctively.
She wakes slowly, stretching like a cat, her body pressing back against mine in a way that makes my breath catch. Then she turns in my arms, her eyes still heavy with sleep, and smiles at me.
"Morning," she murmurs, her voice rough and soft.
"Morning."
"Did you sleep?"
"Eventually."
She laughs quietly, the sound warm and intimate. "Me too."
We lie there for a moment, just looking at each other, and I'm struck by how easy this feels. How natural.
There's no awkwardness, no regret, no careful distance.
"I'm starving," she says finally, and I feel myself smile.
"Yeah. Me too."
We get up slowly, pulling on clothes in the cold morning air, our movements unhurried and comfortable. She's still wearing my flannel shirt over her thermal, and seeing her in my clothes does something to me that I don't have words for.
The cabin is cold enough that I can see our breath as we move toward the kitchen. I stoke the fire first, adding logs and watching the flames catch and grow, feeling the warmth begin to push back the chill.
Demi stands close, holding her hands out toward the heat, and I move behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her back against my chest.
"Better?" I ask, my voice low near her ear.
"Much."
We stay like that for a moment, and I feel her relax into me, trusting and easy. It's such a small thing, but it feels monumental. The fact that she fits here, in my space, in my arms, in my life… It's overwhelming in the best way.
"What do you want for breakfast?" I ask eventually, forcing myself to step back before I get too lost in the feeling of her.
"Everything. I'm not kidding—I could eat a horse right now."
I laugh, and it feels good. Easy. "How about pancakes, eggs, bacon, and coffee?"
"Perfect."
We move into the kitchen together, and the domesticity of it hits me immediately. She knows where I keep things now—the plates, the mugs, the spatula. She doesn't ask permission; she just moves, pulling out what we need, filling the coffee pot with water, setting the stove to heat.
We work around each other seamlessly, our bodies passing close, hands brushing, touches that no longer feel tentative or accidental.
I mix the pancake batter while she starts the bacon, the smell of it sizzling in the cast iron pan filling the cabin with a rich, savory warmth.
The coffee begins to percolate, adding its own comforting aroma to the mix. Steam rises from the pan, catching the morning light, and I can hear the soft pop and hiss of fat rendering.
"I'm so sore," Demi says suddenly, laughing as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. "In the best way, but still."
I glance at her, heat rising in my chest. "Yeah?"
