Finally, he rolls to the side, pulling me with him so my head rests on his chest. His heartbeat is fast beneath my ear. His hand strokes lazy patterns on my back.
"This doesn't mean I forgive you," I say into the darkness.
"I know."
"I'm still angry."
"I know that too."
"And tomorrow?—"
"Tomorrow is tomorrow." He presses a kiss to the top of my head. "Tonight is tonight. Just let me have this."
I should argue. Should remind him that one night was the deal, that nothing has actually changed between us, that sex doesn't fix the fundamental problems of trust and manipulation and the fact that I'm still technically his prisoner.
But I'm too tired and too comfortable in his arms despite every reason I shouldn't be.
So I close my eyes and let myself drift. How many days do I have left? I’ve lost count. I'm starting to wonder if I want to leave at all.
30
PHOENIX
She won't look at me.
I've been awake for twenty minutes, watching her move around the cabin like a ghost. She slipped out of bed before dawn, and now she's standing at the window with her arms wrapped around herself, staring at the snow.
Last night changed something between us. I felt it when she fell asleep in my arms, her body soft and pliant against mine, her breath warm on my chest. For a few hours, she let herself forget all the reasons she's supposed to hate me.
Now the morning has come, and so has her regret.
I don't push or try to talk to her about what happened. I don’t reach for her when I climb out of bed or don't make any of the moves that would send her running back behind her walls. Instead, I start making breakfast.
Eggs. Toast. Coffee. I want to feel as normal as possible.
The smell of food eventually draws her to the small table. She sits without a word, her eyes fixed on the plate I set in front of her. We eat in silence, listening to the sound of the fire crackling in the distance.
"Thanks," she mumbles when she's finished. It's the first word she's said morning.
"You're welcome."
More silence. She takes her plate to the sink and washes it, a task that takes far longer than necessary.
"The cabin needs some work," I say eventually. "There's a loose board by the door. And the firewood needs to be restocked from the shed."
She turns, and I see the flicker of something in her eyes. Relief, maybe?
"I can help," she offers.
So we work.
It's strange, this forced domesticity. Side by side, we fix the loose board with a hammer and nails from the toolbox under the sink. We haul firewood from the shed out back, making trip after trip until there's a respectable pile stacked beside the stove. She finds a broom and sweeps the floors while I clean out the ash from the fireplace.
By midday, the cabin is cleaner than it's been in years, and something has shifted between us again. The awkwardness hasn't disappeared entirely, but it's softened. She's moving more easily now, her body less rigid, her glances in my direction less guarded.
We make lunch together. Sandwiches from the supplies that the caretaker had stocked. She finds a can of soup in the back of the pantry and heats it on the stove while I slice bread. Our shoulders brush as we move around the small kitchen, and she doesn't flinch away.
Progress.
