I turn the heat down under the pot and put the lid back on, leaving it to simmer.
I learned long ago that I can’t control the future. Tomorrow will bring with it what it will.
But tonight…she’s mine.
Tessa
The whole cabin smells like garlic, onions, and some delicious combination of herbs I can’t even begin to guess. Cooking has never been my strong suit, but judging by the rich, comforting smell coming from the kitchen, it’s definitely Holt’s.
And I am not complaining.
I’ve just closed my journal when he crosses the room with two glasses of red wine in his hand. “It needs to simmer for a while,” he says as he hands me a glass.
“Wine?” I ask, lifting a brow. “You don’t really seem like a red wine kind of guy.”
He shrugs, one shoulder rolling casually. “Found it in the back of the cabinet. I must have picked it up somewhere along the way. Tonight felt like it called for something a bit special.”
I can’t stop the little smile that crosses my face, because I completely agree.
I wait until he’s lowered himself to the far end of the couch, leaving a careful stretch of cushions between us. As much as I’d like to be snuggled up to him right now, I like this perspective, too.
I move to tuck my legs beneath me to give us more room, but before I can get fully comfortable, his hand closes gently around my ankle.
“Feet,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
“Give me your feet,” he commands, his voice almost rough before he swallows and tries again. “Please,” he adds, softer this time.
I let him draw my feet into his lap. With his free hand, he presses a thumb into the arch slowly, firmly. There’s no heat in it, just a steady pressure that almost makes me groan with a completely different kind of pleasure.
It’s such a simple gesture, and somehow it seems so much more intimate than anything that happened earlier.
The wine is smooth. The cabin is warm, and as the sun sets outside, draping the room in long shadows, I can’t help but feel exactly, perfectly at home.
Holt doesn’t pull me any closer; he just keeps rubbing my feet, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He’s left his wine mostly untouched, using both his hands now, and I’m not complaining.
“So,” he says after a while, his eyes still focused on what he’s doing. “Are you going to tell me why you’re really here?”
My heart stutters, and I take another sip of wine to buy myself a second, watching the way the firelight reflects off the glass instead of looking at him.
“The storm,” I say lightly. “And my dad wasn’t home. Remember?”
His thumbs don’t stop moving, but I feel the way his grip shifts a little.
“Oh, I remember.” His voice is low and controlled. “I remember very well. But that’s not an answer to my question, and we both know it.”
We fall back into silence for a moment, but it’s not uncomfortable. Holt doesn’t push like most people in my life: my professors, classmates, and my parents. They all want answers and explanations. They all want to tell me what to do, what makes sense, what I shouldfeeland think.
The steady pressure of his hands on my feet grounds me. I let the warmth of the cabin wrap around me. It feels like I’m in a safe bubble with him here, like nothing can touch me and there are no consequences.
I’m not naive enough to believe it, but for the moment, it feels real.
I let out a slow breath.
“I was supposed to graduate in a few months,” I say.
