Listened.
The cabin was quiet except for the soft pop of embers and the steady rhythm of his breathing behind me. The storm from last night had passed, leaving a hush so complete it felt unreal. Safe.
My chest tightened at the word. I loved this cabin, I never wanted to leave it.
I hadn’t slept like this in over a year. Not deeply. Not without waking every few hours, heart racing, bracing for something to go wrong.
But this morning, I felt… held.
Carefully, I turned just enough to look at him.
Trigger was still asleep, his brow relaxed in a way I’d never seen before. The hard lines softened. The weight he carried—danger, responsibility, restraint—eased just a little. One arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other still anchoring me in place.
Last night came back in fragments.
The way his voice had roughened when he said my name.
The way he’d taken his time, like there was nowhere else he needed to be.
The way he’d looked at me afterward—quiet, reverent, like I wasn’t something temporary.
My throat tightened.
I shifted, intending to slip out of bed without waking him.
His arm tightened instantly.
“Don’t,” he murmured, voice low and sleep-heavy. “Wasn’t done holding you.”
Heat bloomed low in my stomach.
“I wasn’t leaving,” I whispered. “Just… stretching.”
One eye opened. Then the other.
He studied my face for a long moment, like he was checking to make sure I was really still there. When he seemed satisfied, his hand slid up my side, warm and possessive, pulling me closer.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
I nodded. “Better than okay.”
His thumb brushed my ribs absently. Intimate. Unthinking.
“Last night wasn’t a mistake,” he said.
“I know.”
“I don’t regret it.”
“I know that too.”
Silence settled between us—not awkward. Comfortable. Earned.
But beneath it, something shifted.
Trigger’s gaze sharpened slightly, his body tensing beneath mine.
“What?” I asked softly.
