"Yeah." She grins at me over her shoulder, her eyes bright with mischief and satisfaction. "Worth it, though."
"Definitely worth it."
She laughs again, and the sound fills the cabin in a way that makes it feel less like a shelter and more like a home.
I pour the first pancake onto the griddle, watching it bubble and brown, and I'm acutely aware of her beside me. The way shehums softly under her breath as she flips the bacon. The way she reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear. The way she looks completely at ease in my space, like she's been here for years instead of hours.
I really don't want her to leave.
It's not just that I enjoyed last night, though I did, more than I can articulate. It's not just that she's beautiful or kind or funny or any of the other things I've noticed over the past hours.
It's that she fits.
She fits in this cabin, in this life, in the quiet spaces I've spent years convincing myself I preferred empty.
She doesn't try to change me or fix me or make me into something I'm not. She just exists beside me, easy and present and real, and somehow that's more terrifying than anything I've ever faced.
Because wanting her to stay means risking her leaving.
"Joseph?"
Her voice pulls me back, and I realize I've been staring at the pancake, which is starting to burn around the edges. I flip it quickly, cursing under my breath, and she laughs.
"Where'd you go just now?"
"Nowhere. Just thinking."
"About?"
I don't answer right away. I finish the pancakes and eggs while she plates the bacon, and we sit down at the small table with our food spread between us.
The cabin is warmer now, the fire crackling steadily, and outside the world is white and still.
We eat, and I watch her. The way she closes her eyes when she takes the first bite, savoring it. The way she reaches for her coffee and wraps both hands around the mug, soaking in the warmth.
"You could leave today if you wanted to," I say finally, setting down my fork.
She looks up at me, her expression unreadable. "Is that what you want?"
"No."
The word comes out more forcefully than I intend, and I see her eyes widen slightly. I take a breath, forcing myself to slow down, to say this right.
"No," I repeat, quieter this time. "That's not what I want."
"Then what do you want?"
I look at her and I realize that I've spent years avoiding this exact moment. The moment where I have to choose vulnerability over safety.
"I want you to stay," I say, and my voice is rough but steady. "Not because of the storm. Not because of what happened last night. I want you to stay because I don't want this to end. I don't want you to be a guest or a mistake or something temporary. I want you here with me. As my girlfriend."
The words feel clumsy and too simple for the weight of what I'm feeling, but they're honest.
Demi sets down her mug, and for a terrible second I think I've miscalculated, that I've asked for too much too soon.
But then she smiles this beautiful, unguarded smile, and she reaches across the table to take my hand.
"I came here to heal," she says softly. "To get away from everything and just… breathe. I thought I needed space and quiet and time alone to figure out what I wanted."
