Tara catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. "What?"
"Nothing," I lie.
But I'm guessing the truth is written all over my face. Being trapped here with her doesn't feel like a crisis—it feels like fate.
"Can we make a fire, Daddy Cameron?" Posey asks, petting Edison by the cold hearth.
Moving to the fireplace, I discover someone's left long wooden matches in a tin box—the old-fashioned kind pioneers used.
Straw baskets nearby overflow with kindling, small twigs, everything needed to build a proper fire.
"Good idea. Tara, why don't you play with Posey while I work on this?"
With the females occupied, I turn my attention to the hearth. Wondering how to start a fire without the Internet or YouTube to help me.
It takes several frustrating minutes. Yet eventually, flames catch and spread across the logs. When I turn around, both girls are sitting cross-legged on the dirt floor, completely absorbed in a game of rock, paper, scissors.
Something about the domestic scene—Tara's patient teaching, Posey's delighted giggles—hits me square in the chest.
This is what I've been missing my entire life without even knowing it.
"Can I join?" I ask, settling beside them on the floor.
I fold my legs, acutely aware of how close Tara is beside me. Her knee brushes mine as we play. Every casual contact sends heat racing through my system.
Tara's changed out of her soaked shirt into something dry from her bag, but somehow she looks even more tempting in the oversized sweater that keeps slipping off one shoulder.
After a while, Posey yawns and leans against Tara. "I'm tired, Daddy Cameron."
"Let's get you settled upstairs," I say, scooping Posey into my arms. "Tara, help me get her comfortable?"
The handmade wooden staircase creaks under our weight but feels sturdy enough. Edison bounds up after us, claiming his role as guardian.
Upstairs, a simple bed waits under the eaves. The linens aren't exactly fresh, but they're soft and inviting. I check discreetly for any issues while Tara strips off her dry sweater to create a clean pillow for Posey.
Tara's figure, revealed by her thin tank top, clings to her delicious curves. I pretend not to notice.
"Are you comfortable?" Tara asks, smoothing Posey's hair with gentle fingers.
But Posey doesn't answer because she's already drifting asleep, exhausted from the day's adventure and the storm's drama.
Edison settles protectively beside the bed, shooting us a look that clearly says, “I’ve got this handled.”
We make our way quietly back downstairs.
We settle near the hearth. The fire has calmed into a steady burn, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. The storm still rages outside. But here in our sanctuary, everything feels suspended in time.
"You're good with her," I say quietly, watching the flames. "She trusts you completely."
"She's easy to love," Tara replies, then seems to realize what she's admitted. Color rises in her cheeks. "I mean?—"
"I know what you mean."
Tara's quiet for a long moment, staring into the fire. When she finally speaks, her voice is careful.
"I remember the first time I heard 'Dark Water.' I was thirteen. It blew my mind. I fell totally in love with you."
The mention of that song—one of my earliest, rawest tracks—hits me like a punch to the gut.
