The trust in that single word does something to me, something dangerous and necessary all at once.
I realize, sitting here with her, surrounded by my brothers and a half-frozen kitten and the weight of threats I can't fully see yet, that I'm not just protecting her because it's the right thing to do.
And that's more terrifying than Deadwood could ever be.
Chapter 4 – Megan
The drive back to the cabin feels different this time. The rain has eased to a fine mist that clings to the windshield, and the forest on either side of the narrow road is dark and dripping, branches heavy with water that catches the headlights and scatters them into fragments of silver light.
Morgan drives with the same steady focus, I'm acutely aware of him in the enclosed space—the way his shoulder shifts when he adjusts his grip, the faint sound of his breathing, the warmth radiating off his body despite the cold seeping in through the vents.
When we reach the cabin, the world feels smaller than it did this morning, like everything beyond the porch light has ceased to exist. He cuts the engine and the silence that follows is thick.
Inside, the cabin smells like wood smoke and the faint herbal scent of the tea, and the warmth wraps around me immediately. Morgan moves past me to add wood to the fire, and the space is tight enough that his arm brushes mine, a fleeting contact that sends a jolt of awareness through me sharp enough to make my breath catch.
He doesn't apologize or step back, just continues what he's doing, and I stand there watching the play of firelight across his shoulders, noticing the way his muscles shift beneath his shirt.
He straightens and turns to face me, and for a long moment we just look at each other across the small space.
Then he moves to the kitchen, pulling down mugs and filling the kettle, and I follow without thinking, drawn by the simple pull of his presence.
When he hands me the mug a few minutes later, his fingers brush mine and linger just a fraction longer than necessary. We move to the couch, and when he sits he's close enough that our knees touch.
I wrap my hands around the mug and try to steady myself against the rising awareness that's been building all day.
"You were in the military, weren’t you?" I ask, watching steam rise from my tea.
He takes a slow sip, considering. "Yeah. Logistics mostly." His hand rests on his thigh, close enough that I can feel the heat coming off it. "Kept things moving when everything else was chaos."
I shift slightly, my knee pressing more firmly against his. "That's why you're always planning three steps ahead."
"Habit." His mouth quirks slightly. "Hard to turn it off."
His free hand moves to rest on the back of the couch behind me. I set my mug down and turn toward him more fully, our legs now pressed together from knee to hip.
"I was twenty when I met him," I say quietly, the words coming easier than I expected because Morgan's presence somehow makes vulnerability feel less dangerous. "Fresh out of a shitty retail job, no real plans. He seemed like he had everything figured out."
Morgan's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. His hand drops from the couch to my shoulder, fingers resting there lightly, thumb brushing the curve where my neck meets my collarbone. "How long before things changed?"
"Slowly at first. Little comments about what I wore, who I saw. Suggestions that felt like care." I lean into his touch without thinking, and his hand settles more firmly. "By the time I realized it wasn't care, I was already cut off from everyone who might've noticed."
His fingers tighten briefly on my shoulder before he forces them to relax, but I can feel the tension in his body, the controlled anger simmering just beneath his calm exterior. "You were a kid. He picked you because you were young enough not to see it coming."
The validation hits hard, and I shift closer. "I kept thinking if I just did better, tried harder—"
"It wouldn't have mattered." His voice is rough, certain. "That's not on you, that's on him."
His hand leaves my shoulder to cup the side of my face, his palm warm and slightly rough against my skin, his thumb brushing my cheekbone with a gentleness that makes my throat tight.
I'm totally focused on how close we are now, how his thigh is pressed against mine, how his hand on my face is cradling rather than just touching, how our breathing has started to sync. My hand resting on his chest can feel his heart beating faster than it was a moment ago, and when I look up at him his gaze is locked on my mouth with an intensity that makes heat pool low in my belly.
He doesn't move closer. Just watches me, waiting, giving me space to decide.
I let my hand slide up his chest slowly, feeling muscle and warmth beneath fabric, until my fingers reach the back of his neck. His breath catches, barely audible, but I feel it.
I lean in slowly, watching his eyes darken, watching his control hold even as I close the distance between us.
When my lips brush his, it's tentative, testing, and for a heartbeat neither of us moves.
