Sunlight warms our tangled limbs while hay prickles my skin and his hand strokes slow circles over my hip. The loft smells like us now, like sweat, arousal, and hay bales. No rush to move. No need to hide.
I'm in. Completely. And it feels like freedom.
"You're mine," he says again. "Say it."
"I'm yours." The words are easier this time, true and certain.
His gaze drifts over my face, the hard lines of his jaw finally relaxing. He traces the line of my hair with a thumb, a gesture so gentle it brings a lump to my throat. Without breaking eye contact, he gathers his shirt from the hay. The rough cotton settles over my bare shoulders, a shield against the vulnerability of the moment.
The fabric smells like him, leather and sage and sweat. I pull it tighter, suddenly aware that I'm nearly naked in a hayloft in the middle of the day with a man I've known for less than a week, but also a man I’ve thought about almost every day for seventeen years.
"Three days." His voice cuts through my thoughts. "You leave in three days."
My stomach drops. "Cash—"
"No—something inside is telling me I need to know exactly where we stand," he says, his hands tightening against my skin as if he can anchor me here by sheer will alone. "Tell me right now, Sloane: Are you getting back on that plane to Seattle?"
"My job—"
"Is killing you." He stands, pulling me up with him, and I'm acutely aware of how small I feel next to him. How his body blocks the light. "And you know it."
Wrapping his shirt around me, I try to pull back, but he doesn't let me retreat. Just backs me against the hay bales again, hands on each side of me, caging me in.
"I'm scared," I whisper.
"Of what?"
"That if I lose my career, if I stop running things at work, I'll stop mattering."
His expression cracks. Something raw and vulnerable shows on his face before he cups my jaw, forcing me to meet his gaze. His palm is warm and rough against my skin. "You matter to me. Not because of what you do, but because you exist."
The words settle inside me. I can't speak or breathe around the truth of it.
"There’s no deadline on how I feel about you," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the line of my cheek with a steady, grounding heat. "But as you weigh the options, don't forget one thing." He leans in, his kiss a slow, deliberate anchor. His palm settles over my chest, trapping the frantic beat of my heart beneath his skin. "I’ve spent too long waiting for this to let you slip away now."
Then he moves back, giving me space to gather my scattered clothes. I dress myself with shaking hands while he watches from the hay bale, and the charged silence between us holds everything we're not saying.
When I'm decent, I turn to face him. "I need time to think."
"Okay." He stands, closing the distance between us. "But Sloane? While you're thinking, remember something."
"What?"
"I’m exactly what you need, and you're exactly what I need. Seventeen years ago and now. And I'm not letting you go without a fight."
Then he kisses me once more, soft and promising this time, and climbs down the ladder.
Standing alone in the hayloft, I stare at the dust motes dancing in the afternoon light. The hay scratches my ankles through my socks, and I can still taste him on my lips.
Three days.
I have three days to decide if I'm brave enough to choose this.
To choose him.
To choose myself.
Walking back to Cabin 5, the sun is brutal and unforgiving. Inside, my laptop sits on the table where I left it on my first night. Opening it feels like lifting something heavy. The Wi-Fi is weak but functional. My inbox loads slowly—127 unread emails.
