The last thing I remember is the mug slipping from my hands.
Then it’s gone. A rough hand brushes mine, steadying it before it spills. My lashes flutter, just enough to catch him leaning close. His jaw’s tight, eyes locked on me with a look that steals my breath. He doesn’t say a word. Just lingers there, like he’s fighting himself.
I stay still, pretending to sleep, my chest thudding too loud in the quiet.
He hesitates, the silence stretching so thin I swear it might snap. The mug clinks softly against the table, but his hand doesn’t leave mine right away. His fingers hover, brushing my skin like he can’t decide whether to let go. His breath comes rough, uneven, and every second he doesn’t move makes my pulse hammer harder.
For one dizzy beat, I think he might give in. That he’d lean down, close the space, and confirm everything simmering between us. My skin burns with the weight of it—of him—hovering so close.
Then the couch shifts, his warmth pulling away. His footsteps move down the hall, slow and heavy, until a door clicks shut, swallowed by the storm.
Me? I lie curled in the blanket, his touch still on my skin, his breath still in my ear. The spot beside me feels empty and cold. The ache in my chest only gets worse. I hate myself for it—for wanting more, for wishing he hadn’t stopped, for knowing better and still not caring. Sleep isn’t coming. Not with how close he’d been and how much I already miss it.
Chapter Seven
Clay
By the time I push myself off the couch, my back is stiff and my head’s pounding. Tessa’s passed out, curled on her side with her knees pulled up, the blanket slipping low around her hips. She doesn’t even stir when I stand. Her hair has fallen over her face, soft strands catching the glow from the fireplace. For a second, I let myself look—too long, probably—before I drag my eyes away and force my feet down the hall.
I should be relieved she’s asleep. One less fight to bite my tongue through, one less reminder of how damn small this cabin feels with her inside it. But relief’s not what I feel. It’s something heavier, something that coils low in my gut and makes every nerve hum like I’m wired too tight.
The bathroom’s cold when I step in, the kind of chill that seeps into your skin. My reflection looks the way I feel—jaw clenched, eyes hollow, shoulders strung with tension. I strip down and twist the shower knob, waiting until steam fogs the glass before stepping in.
The water scalds at first, but I don’t move. I let it beat into my shoulders and try to wash some of this shit off me. It doesn’t work.
I brace both palms against the tile, bow my head, and shut my eyes. All I can hear is the rush of water and my own breath, ragged and uneven. All I can feel is the ache I can’t shake—her.
The way she hummed while she cooked earlier, off-key and careless. How the faint vanilla scent of her lotion lingers when she walks by. The sight of her, curled on the couch in her oversized sweater, hair falling over her face.
I curse under my breath, but my body doesn’t give a damn about the lines I’ve been drawing in my head. My hand wrapsaround my cock before I even register the thought, and the hiss that rips out of me is a mix of pain and relief.
The first stroke nearly causes my knees to buckle. Heat spikes hard, every pull cranking the tension tighter, sharper. My grip adjusts, sliding slow, then harder, faster, chasing something I swore I wouldn’t let happen.
And still, it’s her. Always her.
Flashes hit me like blows—her mouth parting on a laugh, her lips pink from biting them, the way her blue eyes catch mine when she thinks I’m not looking. My fist works harder, my thumb dragging over the head, and the image shifts to her mouth wrapped around me instead, her voice moaning my name.
I drop my head to the tile, forehead pressed against it, water pounding my back. My hand moves harder, faster, and I let myself imagine her there—curled against me, pulled into my lap, whispering my name the way she did that night in the hallway. Like I belonged to her.
A groan tears low from my chest. I don’t want this. Don’t want it to be her. But there’s no fighting it. She’s all I can see, all I can taste, all I can remember. My whole body shudders as my release tears through me, leaving nothing left inside me but a deep ache.
I stay there too long after, braced against the wall, chest heaving, water pounding down until the sting in my skin matches the raw ache in my chest.
When I finally shut the water off, the bathroom feels colder than before, steam thinning into nothing. I towel off, drag on my sweats, and catch my reflection in the mirror again. Same clenched jaw. Same hollow eyes.
The only difference is that the weight in my chest feels worse now. Because no matter what I do to try to shake her, I know the truth—Tessa’s under my skin deeper than ever. And there’s no escaping her. Not while stuck snowed in this house.
Back in my room, I flip open the laptop, the glow stabbing at my eyes. I focus on the game tape—Kolmont’s lazy shifts, weak coverage, and sloppy defense. My pen digs into the page, each note rougher than the last.
But she’s still there. Her laughter. The mess she left in the kitchen. Wrapping paper is scattered across the living room floor. She’s curled up on the couch, comfortable in a way I can’t let myself be. I press harder, letters grinding into the paper until the tip’s about to snap. Doesn’t matter. I’m only pretending I’m in control.
I remind myself why I keep her at arm’s length. She’s off-limits. Getting tangled up with her would be a distraction, and I have too much on the line already. I tell myself I’m stronger than this, that distance is the only way. But the truth sits heavy in my chest, the urge to cross that line pressing hard against it.
By the time I give up on studying tape, it’s late. The cabin’s quiet, lights dim, clock pushing past ten. I grab the shovel, step outside, and the motion sensor floods the porch and driveway with harsh white light.
My arms burn, shoulders screaming with every heave of snow. Boots skid on the ice, breath ripping out of me in sharp bursts. Each shovelful blows back toward me, like the universe is laughing at me for thinking I could dig my way out of this house.
Headlights cut across the yard. A pickup rolls in slow behind me, chains biting deep into the ice. It’s another reminder of how stuck I am. A man with a broad frame, under a flannel jacket and a red knit cap pulled low, climbs out.
