“I know.” He swallows. “Doesn’t make it easier.”
I squeeze his hand. “No. It doesn’t.”
We stay like that until the cold starts to seep deeper. Until my teeth chatter just a little.
Ronan stands first, pulls me up with him. “Come on. You’re freezing.”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re not.” He keeps my hand in his as we descend the stairs. “My place is closer than yours. You can warm up. Coffee. Dry clothes if you want.”
I don’t argue. The fog is heavier now, the path barely visible. I let him lead me down the bluff, past the lighthouse keeper’s old cottage, to the small cabin tucked against the trees. His truck is parked out front. The porch light is on—soft, welcoming.
Inside, it smells like pine and woodsmoke and him. He flips on a lamp, heads straight for the woodstove, opens the door, and stirs the embers until flames catch. The room warms quickly.
“Sit,” he says, nodding to the couch. “I’ll get you something dry.”
He disappears into the bedroom, comes back with a soft gray sweatshirt and a pair of thick socks. “They’ll be big, but they’re warm.”
I take them, fingers brushing his. “Thank you.”
He turns his back while I change—polite, careful. The sweatshirt hangs past my hips, sleeves swallowing my hands. The socks bunch at my ankles. I feel small in his clothes. Safe.
When he turns around again, his eyes darken for a second, something raw flickering through them before he looks away.
“Coffee?” he asks.
“Please.”
He moves to the kitchen. I follow, leaning against the counter while he fills the kettle and measures grounds. Domestic. Quiet. The normal I haven’t had in years.
When the coffee’s ready, he hands me a mug. Our fingers touch again. This time, neither of us pulls away.
We stand there, close enough to feel each other’s warmth, mugs steaming between us.
“I’m glad you came tonight,” I say softly.
He looks down at me. “I couldn’t stay away.”
The words hang there—simple, honest.
I set my mug on the counter. Step closer. Tilt my head up.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
Time slows.
He lifts a hand and cups my cheek. His thumb brushes the corner of my lip. Slow. Careful. Asking.
I answer by rising on my toes and pressing my mouth to his.
The kiss is soft at first, tentative, searching. Then he groans low in his throat, and everything changes.
His arms come around me, pulling me flush against him. I wrap mine around his neck, fingers threading into his hair. He tastes like coffee and salt and something darker, hungrier.The kiss deepens. It’s open-mouthed, urgent, years of grief and loneliness pouring out between us.
He lifts me easily and sets me on the counter. Steps between my knees. His hands slide under the sweatshirt, palms warm on my bare skin. I arch into him, gasping against his mouth.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against my lips.
