Corin had been so careful today. Keeping his distance. Matching her pace on the walk to the barn but never brushing too close. Even when he'd handed her the coffee, he'd made sure their fingers didn't touch.
Polite. Respectful.
Disinterested.
She'd seen it before. Men who were kind to her, helpful even, but who never looked at her the way she sometimes caught herself looking at them. She didn't inspire passion. She inspired friendliness. Mild fondness at best.
It was fine. She'd made peace with it years ago.
She'd dated, of course. Quietly, briefly. A botanist in Portland who'd been more interested in her plant knowledge than her body. A bartender in Asheville who'd stuck around for three months before admitting he wasn't looking for anything serious. A few forgettable first dates that never became second ones.
Nothing that burned. Nothing that lasted.
And that was fine. She had her work. Her plants. Her slow journey toward understanding whatever strange gift her blood carried.
She didn't need more than that.
Chloe finished her tea and rinsed the mug in the sink. The cottage had grown dark around her, and she hadn't bothered to turn on the lights. Just the orange glow from the stove, casting long shadows across the wooden floor.
She was tired. Bone tired, the kind that came from cold and work and too many thoughts she didn't want to examine.
She changed into a worn flannel shirt that hung past her thighs and climbed into bed. The sheets were cold at first, then slowly warmed around her as she curled onto her side.
Before she even realized that she was sleeping, Chloe was already well into a dream.
She was in the orchard. Not the cold gray version from this morning, but something softer. Warmer. Late afternoon light slanting golden through the apple trees, heavy with fruit that shouldn't exist in January.
Corin stood by the fence line, facing away from her.
She walked toward him without deciding to. The grass was soft beneath her bare feet, and somewhere nearby, bees hummed in lazy contentment.
He turned when she reached him. Those hazelnut eyes found hers, and something in them had changed. The careful distance was gone. In its place was heat. Want. A hunger he wasn't bothering to hide.
"Chloe."
Her name in his mouth was a low rumble, almost a growl.
He reached for her, and his hands were warm against her waist, spanning nearly the width of her. He pulled her close, and she went willingly, pressing against the solid wall of his chest.
"I've been waiting," he said against her hair.
"For what?"
"For you to see."
His mouth found hers, and the world narrowed to honey and heat. He tasted like summer, like sunshine, like something she'd been craving. His hands slid up her back, gathering her closer, and she arched into him with a soft sound she'd never made in waking life.
He lifted her like she weighed nothing, and then she was pressed against the rough bark of an apple tree, his body a wall of warmth between her and the world. His mouth traced down her throat while his hands found the hem of her shirt, fingers brushing bare skin.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured against her collarbone.
"Don't."
He groaned, and the sound vibrated through her, settling low and hot in her belly. His thigh pressed between hers, and she gasped at the friction, the pressure, the delicious ache building at her center. She rocked against him instinctively, chasing something just out of reach.
His mouth returned to hers, swallowing her small desperate noises. His hand slid higher, cupping her breast through the thin fabric, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak until she whimpered.
She was burning. Melting. Coming apart in his hands like morning frost.
