The buns go into the oven, and I start arranging everything on the counter. Bowls. Spoons. The butter dish I found in his fridge. I'm reaching across the counter for the salt when I hear the front door open and close.
Heavy footsteps. The sound of boots being kicked off.
"Something smells amazing in here."
I turn. Jake is standing in the kitchen doorway, snow melting in his dark hair, his cheeks flushed from the cold. He looks exhausted. Shoulders tight, shadows under his eyes, but he's looking at me like I'm the first good thing he's seen all day.
"Tomato soup," I say. "And fresh rolls. They need another few minutes."
"You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to."
He nods slowly, shrugging off his jacket. I turn back to the counter, suddenly very aware of how domestic this is. Me in his kitchen. Cooking for him. Like we're something we're not.
We eat lunch standing at the counter, dipping warm bread into tomato soup. Like what just happened doesn’t change everything.
After we eat, Jake announces that the driveway won't shovel itself. I grab a spare pair of gloves and follow him outside.
We spend the rest of the afternoon clearing snow. It's brutal, backbreaking work: three feet of heavy, wet powder that seems to multiply every time I turn around. But there's something satisfying about it too. The burn in my muscles. The crisp mountain air. The way Jake and I fall into an easy rhythm, working side by side without needing to fill the silence with words.
By the time we finish, the sun is setting behind the peaks and I can barely lift my arms. We're both soaked with sweat despite the cold, breathing hard, grinning at each other across the cleared driveway like we've accomplished something monumental.
Back inside, we eat leftover soup and the rest of the rolls—cold now, but still good. I'm too exhausted to taste much of anything. My whole body aches in that pleasant, used-up way that comes from honest physical labor.
I shower first, standing under the hot water until my muscles unknot and my skin turns pink. When I finally emerge, wrapped in one of Jake's oversized towels, he's waiting outside the bathroom door.
"Bed's all yours," he says. "I'll be in after I clean up."
I don't let myself think too hard about what that means. I just nod, find my sleep clothes, and crawl under the covers.
The sheets smell like him. Pine and coffee and something warm underneath.
I'm half-asleep when I feel the mattress dip.
Jake climbs into bed carefully, trying not to wake me. I keep my breathing steady, my eyes closed, not quite ready to acknowledge that we're doing this again. Sharing a bed. Like it's normal. Like it doesn't mean anything.
He's close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Close enough that I could roll over and press myself against him if I wanted.
I want.
God, I want.
But I'm leaving tomorrow, and he's not the kind of man who asks women to stay. I've known that from the beginning. It's written in every guarded look, every careful distance he maintains even when we're tangled together.
Except these past few days, he keeps doing things that don't fit that picture. Saying things that catch me off guard. Looking at me like I'm something more than a temporary distraction.
It's confusing as hell.
I can tell he’s awake. Can tell he’s going over something in his mind too.
"You're thinking too loud," I mumble before I can stop myself.
He goes still. "Sorry."
"What are you thinking about?"
"Nothing."
