His smile widens, just a fraction, but it’s real. “Good to know.”
He disappears into the hallway. I hear water running, cabinets opening. A few minutes later, he returns with two mugs of coffee and a plate of buttered, warmed leftover bread from last night.
“Breakfast in bed,” he says, handing me a mug. “Don’t get used to it.”
I take a sip, it’s perfect, just the right amount of cream, and grin. “Too late. Already used to it.”
We eat in comfortable quiet, Bear curled at our feet. The snow outside is bright and untouched. Inside, everything feels settled. Peaceful.
But my mind won’t stop turning.
This is happening too fast.
We met three days ago. Three. Days. And last night I let him inside me, body and heart, and it didn’t feel reckless. It felt inevitable.
I set my mug on the nightstand. “Nathan?”
He looks over. “Yeah?”
“Is this…” I hesitate, searching for the right words. “Is this moving too fast for you?”
He studies me for a long moment. Then he sets his own coffee aside and turns fully toward me.
“Honestly?” he says. “Yeah. It is.”
My stomach drops.
“But,” he continues, reaching for my hand, lacing our fingers together, “I don’t care.”
I blink. “You don’t?”
“No.” He squeezes my hand. “I spent three years telling myself I wanted to be alone. That anything that felt this good would burn out just as quickly. That if I let someone in, they’d see the quiet parts of me, the long winters, the days I don’t talk much, the way I sometimes need space, and they’d leave. So I kept everyone out. Built walls. Told myself it was safer.”
His thumb brushes over my knuckles.
“Then I walked into that bar. Looked at me like I was worth the trouble.”
He lifts my hand to his lips and presses a soft kiss to my knuckles.
“I’m scared,” he admits quietly. “I’m scared this is too fast. I’m scared I’ll mess it up. I’m scared you’ll wake up one day and realize the quiet isn’t romantic—it’s just quiet. But every time I think about slowing down, about putting distance between us, it feels wrong. Like I’d be punishing myself for something I didn’t do yet.”
He looks at me, really looks. Eyes steady. Vulnerable.
“So no,” he says. “I don’t think it’s too fast. I think it’s exactly the speed it’s supposed to be. Because when I’m with you, everything feels right. I don’t want to fight that.”
Tears prick my eyes. Happy ones. Relieved ones.
“I feel the same,” I whisper. “Every time my brain says ‘slow down,’ my heart says ‘don’t you dare.’ Because this feels like it was always supposed to happen. Like the universe spent years rearranging pieces just so we’d end up here.”
He leans in and kisses me softly. Once. Twice. Then deeper.
When we part, he rests his forehead against mine.
“Then let’s keep going,” he murmurs. “No brakes. No second-guessing. Just us.”
I nod, throat tight. “Just us.”
We spend the morning in bed.
