I stare at him. Something warm and fierce unfurls in my chest. Not just gratitude. Something deeper. He’s not doing this because he has to. He’s doing it because he wants to. Because he’s decided I’m worth protecting. “Thank you,” I whisper.
He shrugs one shoulder, and reaches for his own coffee. The motion makes the muscles in his arm and chest shift in a way that sends another pulse of heat through me. I look down at my plate, suddenly fascinated by my eggs.
We eat in silence for a minute. The wind rattles the windows. Snow pelts the glass like tiny fists.
“You’re staring,” he says quietly.
My head jerks up. “I—what?”
His lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but close. “At me. Not the food.”
Heat floods my face again. “I’m sorry. I just—you’re… not wearing a shirt.”
He glances down at himself like he’s only now noticing. “Gets hot by the stove.”
“Right.” I swallow hard. “Makes sense.”
He studies me for a long beat. Something dark and knowing flickers in his eyes. “You okay, Willa?”
No. Yes. I don’t know. “I’m fine,” I lie. “Just… sore. And trying to process everything.”
He nods once, like he accepts it. Doesn’t push. But he doesn’t look away either. “Finish eating,” he says. “Then I’ll wrap your ribs again before I head out. Keep ‘em stable.”
“Okay.”
He stands, and carries his empty plate to the sink. I watch the play of muscle across his back, the way his jeans sit low enough I can see the dimples at the base of his spine. My imagination helpfully supplies the rest—what it would feel like to trace those lines with my fingertips. What his skin would taste like. Whether he’d groan if I kissed the spot just below his ear.
I press my thighs together under the table and focus on my coffee.
He turns back, drying his hands on a dish towel. “Storm might ease up tomorrow. If it does, we’ll figure out next steps. For now, you stay inside. Doors locked. Rifle’s by the couch if you need it. You know how to use one?”
I nod. “My dad taught me. Basic stuff.”
“Good.” He crosses the room, and stops a few feet away. Close enough I have to tip my head back to meet his eyes. “I’ll be back before dark. You need anything, you holler. I’ll hear you.”
I nod again, throat tight.
He hesitates—like he wants to say more, or maybe do more—then turns toward the bedroom. “I’ll grab a shirt.”
I almost tell him not to.
But I don’t.
He disappears inside, comes back a minute later in a black thermal that clings to every line of him almost as badly as no shirt did. He shrugs into a heavy coat, pulls on gloves, grabs the rifle.
At the door he pauses, and looks back at me. “Lock this behind me,” he says. “Don’t open it for anyone but me.”
“I won’t.”
He nods once. Then he’s gone, the cold rushing in for a second before the door shuts.
I sit there, heart hammering, bacon forgotten.
The storm howls outside. But inside, something else is waking up. And I’m not sure I want to stop it.
FOUR
COLT
