Abilene laughs.
Marshall grunts at the punchline, which is basically the equivalent of a standing ovation from him.
I throw in commentary because it’s my job. If there’s a moment where the room might fall too quiet and everyone might start thinking about fire and smoke and how close we came to losing things, I fill it.
I toss jokes around like sandbags in front of a flood. And it works.
Mostly.
Until Abilene shifts under the blanket and her knee brushes mine.
Just barely. An accident.
Probably.
Except the contact shoots electricity straight through me. My skin goes hot where she touched, and my brain, which has been doing a decent job of staying functional, suddenly starts to misfire.
Because that simple little brush of her knee sparks desire that’s been simmering for days.
Maybe longer.
I’ve been trying to ignore it since the potluck, since she said she enjoyed being around my kids. The most dangerous sentence she could’ve spoken to me.
Since the way she looked standing on her porch in the storm light. Soft, uncertain, and still somehow intense enough to make my chest do weird things.
Then the evacuation happened.
And she opened her door at 3:17 a.m. with fear in her eyes and her bee pendant clutched in her fist because it was the only anchor she had.
Now we’re here in this cabin, sharing air and space and tension. And my restraint is… fraying.
Abilene tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and glances at me. She can feel the way my attention keeps snagging on her.
Her cheeks are pink from the fire and the warmth and maybe the drink. Her lips are slightly parted. She’s thinking of something she’s not saying.
I swallow hard.
This is the part where I should pull back.
This is the part where I should focus on being a responsible father and a good man, and not the kind of guy who kisses his neighbor in a cabin while the world is literally on fire.
But I’m tired.
I’m tired of holding everything up with jokes and duct tape and sheer willpower. I’m tired of pretending I don’t want things.
Wanting is dangerous. Wanting makes you stupid. Wanting makes you forget that people leave.
Hayley left.
She left when the twins were toddlers, when I was still trying to figure out how to keep tiny humans alive without drowning.
She left because she said she needed more, needed space, needed a life that didn’t smell of hay and diapers and a town where everyone knows your business.
She left, and I learned real quick that the second you lean too hard on someone, they disappear.
So I stopped leaning. I became the guy who “doesn’t need anything,” because needing is how you get hurt.
And Abilene…
