By the time we get back to the cabin, we're frozen and exhausted and happier than either of us can remember being. We shed our wet clothes in the mudroom, and Silas starts the shower running.
"Big enough for two," he says with a wicked grin.
I step in beside him, letting the warm water wash over us. The shower is tender. He washes my hair with careful fingers, massaging my scalp until I'm practically purring. I return the favor, learning the geography of his scars, the shrapnel wounds, the surgical scars, the old marks from training accidents.
"Does it bother you?" he asks quietly as my fingers trace the largest scar on his thigh. "The damage?"
"It's not damage. It's proof you survived. Proof you're here with me now." I press a kiss to his shoulder. "Every scar is a story. Someday, when you're ready, I want to hear them all."
His arms band around me, holding me so tight I can barely breathe. "I don't deserve you."
"Yes, you do. And I'm going to spend however long it takes convincing you of that."
That evening, our last evening, we cook dinner together again. This time there's less nervous tension and more easy partnership. We move around each other like we've been doing this for years instead of days.
Over wine and pasta, we talk about the future, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence.
"I want to take you to the veteran's center this week," he says. "Officially. As my... as my girlfriend."
The word sends a thrill through me. "Girlfriend. I like the sound of that."
"Good. Because I also want to take you to Tom's Garage and introduce you to the guys. And to The Waffle Den for breakfast. And basically anywhere and everywhere so the whole town knows you're mine."
"Possessive," I tease, but my heart is soaring.
"Completely. Is that a problem?"
"Not even a little bit."
After dinner, we curl up on the couch, and this time when we watch a movie, we actually watch it. Well, mostly. Silas keeps pressing kisses to my temple, my cheek, my neck, and I keep getting distracted by the way his thumb rubs circles on my hip.
"We should probably pack," I say eventually, though I don't move.
"We should," he agrees, not moving either.
"We have to leave early tomorrow."
"I know."
Neither of us moves.
Finally, he sighs and stands, pulling me up with him. "Come on. I'll help you pack. And then..."
"Then?"
"Then I'm keeping you in my bed all night. Because tomorrow, reality comes back, and I want one more night of this being just ours."
We pack slowly, both dragging it out, neither wanting to acknowledge that our bubble is about to burst. But eventually, both our bags are ready, sitting by the door like sentinels marking the end.
Upstairs, in Silas's bed, we make love slowly. Tenderly. Every touch feels weighted with meaning, every kiss tastes like promises.
Afterward, wrapped in his arms, I whisper, "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For this weekend. For seeing me. For making me feel... alive again."
He presses a kiss to my forehead. "Thank you for bidding on me. For taking a chance on the moody ex-military guy in the corner."
