She finishes her work and stands. “I’m going to bed early. Big day tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
She moves toward the bedroom, then pauses with her hand on the doorframe. “Davin?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever you’re working through, I’m here when you’re ready to talk about it.”
The door closes softly behind her. Not a slam. Worse. The quiet acceptance that I’ve already pulled away.
I stay on the couch, staring at the fire. Flames dance and crack, consuming wood and leaving ash.
Morning comes gray and cold. Tilly emerges dressed for work, hair pulled back. She’s wearing her own clothes, not my thermal shirt.
“Roads should be clear today,” she says without looking at me. “I need to get back to my apartment. Start prep for the opening.”
“I’ll drive you.” The words feel inadequate. I want to do more than drive her. I want to strip her out of those clothes and remind her body what mine already knows. That we fit. That this is right even when it’s hard.
She nods and moves to gather her things. I watch her pack her laptop and notebook, her movements efficient. Hershoulders are stiff, held too carefully. She’s already pulling away, protecting herself from whatever distance I’ve created.
The drive into town is quiet. Snow covers everything in white, pristine and unmarked. The roads are clear, chains no longer necessary.
When I pull up to her apartment building, she reaches for the door handle immediately.
“Tilly.”
She pauses but doesn’t look at me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “For yesterday. For pulling back.”
“It’s fine.” Her voice is steady, controlled. “You don’t owe me explanations.”
“Yes, I do.” I reach for her hand, and she lets me take it. Her skin is cold, fingers stiff. “You shared your fears with me. Let me see your vulnerable places. I should do the same.”
She turns to face me finally. “Then do it. Talk to me.”
The invitation hangs between us. I could tell her everything. Could explain that I’m terrified of failing her the way I failed before. That loving her feels like standing at the edge of something vast, knowing one wrong step could destroy us both. That the intensity I feel scares me because I’ve never wanted anything this much, and wanting always leads to losing.
Instead, I say, “I will. Just not right now.”
Disappointment flickers across her face. She pulls her hand from mine and opens the door. Cold air rushes in, stealing the warmth we’ve been sitting in. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
She’s out before I can respond. She climbs the stairs without looking back. The door closes with finality.
I sit in the truck after she disappears inside, engine idling. My fingers go numb on the wheel.
Alban’s words replay in my mind.Don’t sabotage it because you think you don’t deserve her.
But what if he’s wrong? What if the most loving thing I can do is step back before she realizes I’m not the steady, careful man she needs but something darker and more desperate? Before she sees how thoroughly I want to own every part of her life?
The thought makes my chest ache. But the fear underneath is stronger. The fear that if I let myself have her completely, I’ll consume her the way fire consumes everything it touches.
I drive back to the cabin. The space feels empty without her in it. Her coffee cup still sits in the sink. I pick it up, and the ceramic is cold in my hands. I should wash the mug. Instead, I set it back down and move to the bedroom.
The bed is made with military precision, every corner tucked tight. But her scent lingers on the pillow, lavender and something warmer that’s just her. A strand of her dark hair rests on the quilt. I press my face into her pillow and breathe deeply. The wanting is so intense that it makes my hands shake.
My phone vibrates. A text from Tilly:Thank you for everything. Looks like you need some space. I’ll figure out the opening on my own.
