“No.” I set my own mug aside, and turn to face him fully. “I didn’t come up this mountain looking for forever, Beck. I came up here running. Scared. Alone. And then you happened.”
His jaw tightens.
I reach out, cupping his face, and my thumb brushes the edge of his beard. “I’m not running anymore.”
He covers my hand with his, and holds it there. “Good,” he says, voice low. “Because I’m not letting you.”
The words land heavy. Possessive. Permanent.
Outside, the wind howls. Inside, the fire crackles. And for the first time in months—maybe years—I don’t feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. I just feel… here. With him. And it’s enough.
For now, it’s more than enough.
FIVE
BECK
The coffee’s gone cold on the table between us. I watch her sip from her mug anyway, like she’s buying time, like the bitter taste might ground her. Her hair’s still mussed from my hands, cheeks still flushed from what we just did in the bedroom, but her eyes—those hazel eyes that pinned me the second I pulled her from that wrecked car—are distant now. Flickering toward the window where snow whips sideways against the glass.
She’s thinking about running. About whatever’s waiting down the mountain when this storm finally breaks.
I hate it.
I hate that I can feel her pulling away even while she’s sitting right here, leg pressed to mine, wearing nothing but my shirt and my scent. “Stop,” I say. Quiet. Rough.
Her gaze snaps back to me. “Stop what?”
“Thinking about running.”
She sets the mug down too carefully. Fingers linger on the handle like it’s the only thing keeping her steady. “I’m not running.”
“You’re planning how you will.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees, closing the space without touching her yet. “I can see it. The way your shoulders tense. The way you keep looking at the door.”
Her laugh is small. Brittle. “You’ve known me for less than twenty-four hours, Beck. You don’t know what I’m thinking.”
“Bullshit.” I catch her chin gently, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw. Force her eyes to stay on mine. “I know exactly what you’re thinking. You’re thinking you brought this trouble to my door. You’re thinking if you leave first—before the pass opens, before whoever’s hunting you figures out where you landed—you can keep me out of it. Keep me safe.”
Her breath hitches. Just once. But it’s enough.
I slide my hand to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair the way I did when I kissed her awake this morning. Only this time there’s no heat in it. Just anchor. “You don’t get to decide that for me,” I tell her. Low. Steady. “Not after last night. Not after this morning. Not after you came apart under me twice and whispered my name like it was the only word you remembered.”
Her eyes go glassy. Not tears—not yet—but close. “Beck, if they find me here?—”
“They won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know this mountain. I know these woods. I know every trail, every blind spot, every place a vehicle can’t go. And I know how to make sure no one walks out of here who isn’t supposed to.” My voice drops darker. “I’ve lived alone up here long enough to forget how to be soft. Until you. So yeah, Sabrina—if they come, they’ll have to go through me. And I promise you, they won’t like what happens next.”
She searches my face. Looking for the lie. The exaggeration. The empty bravado men throw around when they want to sound tough.
She doesn’t find it.
Because there isn’t any.
Her lower lip trembles. Just once. Then she’s moving—fast, desperate—climbing into my lap, knees bracketing my hips, arms wrapping around my neck like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.
I catch her. Hold her tight against my chest. One hand splayed across her back, the other cradling the nape of her neck. She buries her face in the crook of my shoulder and I feel the first hot tear hit my skin.
