“My cabin is yours,” I replied.
Something flickered in her eyes -- recognition of the deeper meaning neither of us was ready to name.She nodded once before returning to the kitchen, leaving me to tend the fire and wonder at how quickly the unfamiliar could begin to feel like home.
The simple meal she’d prepared -- pasta with jarred sauce, garlic bread from a loaf Lyssa dropped off earlier -- filled the cabin with comforting scents, changing the feel of the space.We sat at the worn wooden table, shadows sliding across the walls as the fire shifted in the hearth.Conversation came easier now, flowing between us like we’d shared a hundred meals.
“I never understood why they call you Samson.”Callie twirled pasta around her fork.“Your hair isn’t even long.”
The unexpected observation startled a laugh from me.“Not about the hair,” I explained.“First run I went on as a Prospect, we got jumped by some Outlaws at a gas station outside Memphis.I pulled a support beam down to block them from following us.”The memory remained sharp despite the years.“Brick said I was strong as Samson bringing down the temple.Name stuck.”
Her smile reached her eyes this time, transforming her face in the firelight.“Better than some of the road names I’ve heard.”
“Truth,” I agreed, returning her smile with one of my own.Strange how natural it felt, this simple exchange, a moment of lightness amid everything pressing in on us.
As we ate, I found myself sharing stories I rarely told -- runs gone sideways, brothers who’d come and gone, the strange family the Kings had become for me.Callie listened with genuine interest, asking questions, proving she truly heard me instead of just waiting for her turn to speak.Between us, something built slowly, a bridge forming one plank at a time.
When dinner ended, we moved by unspoken agreement to the couch facing the fire.Evening chill crept through the cabin’s insulation, and Callie shivered despite the warmth from the hearth.Without thinking, I reached for the flannel shirt draped over the armchair beside me.
“Here,” I offered, holding it out.
Her fingers brushed mine as she took it, the brief contact sending awareness through me like a current.She slipped it on over my T-shirt she still wore, the sleeves falling past her wrists, the hem reaching mid-thigh.Something possessive stirred in my chest at the sight of her wrapped in my clothes, wearing my protection in layers against her skin.
“Better?”I asked, voice rougher than intended.
She nodded, pulling the collar closer around her neck, inhaling subtly.“Smells like you,” she observed quietly.
The simple statement hung between us.Her gaze met mine across the small distance on the couch, firelight reflecting in eyes shaped by pain yet still capable of warmth.
Slowly, giving me time to pull away, she reached toward me.Her fingers hovered near my collarbone, close to the worn neckline of my T-shirt where the upper edge of an old scar showed -- a jagged line vanishing beneath the fabric.
“Is this part of your story too?”she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
I nodded, holding perfectly still as her fingertips finally made contact with my skin.“Bar fight in Knoxville, second year with the Kings.Broken bottle.”
Her touch traced the visible portion of the scar with gentle curiosity.“You have others,” she observed.Not a question.
“We all carry marks,” I replied.“Some visible.Some not.”
Her eyes met mine, and we understood each other without a word.She knew what invisible scars could do -- how they shape you, control your reactions, decide how close you let anyone get.
I didn’t know who moved first.Maybe both of us.Her lips brushed mine, cautious, almost asking.I answered carefully, letting her lead, making sure she knew she could stop anytime.
Instead, her hand slid from my collarbone to my neck, fingers gripping my hair as the kiss deepened.Something cracked open in my chest, pressure I’d carried so long I thought it was normal.Her lips parted under mine, open but not giving in, and I met her there, holding back just enough to stay in control.
When we separated, her eyes searched mine, looking for regret or hesitation and finding neither.Just certainty and a question of my own -- what she wanted, how far, how fast.
“Samson,” she whispered, my name in her voice pulling at something primal.
My hands hovered at her waist, not quite touching.Asking permission without words.She took them in her own, guided them beneath the flannel shirt to rest against her sides, the heat of her skin burning through the thin cotton of the T-shirt.
“I want this,” she said, answering the question in my eyes.“I want you.”
Simple words cut through complication.I drew her closer, our bodies fitting together like pieces of a puzzle neither of us had known we were solving.Her fingers traced my jaw, my neck, dipping beneath my collar to follow the scar she’d discovered.Mapping me with touch, learning boundaries and contours.
“Bed?”I asked, giving her the space to direct us.
She nodded, rising with me, our hands still connected as I led her toward the bedroom.The fire’s light followed us partway, casting long shadows dancing along the walls as we moved.At the bedside, I paused, giving her one last chance to reconsider.
Instead, she slipped the flannel from her shoulders and reached for the hem of my T-shirt -- the one she wore -- and pulled it over her head in a single fluid movement.She quickly removed the rest of her clothes, until she stood before me completely bare.The dim light caught the curves and hollows of her body, highlighting the contrast of smooth skin and healing bruises, the complex beauty of a survivor.
