I feel his presence behind me, close but not touching. I can feel the heat of him like a second skin.
“Too long,” I say, voice strained. “Too big.”
Wyatt’s voice rumbles behind me. “Perfect.”
I whip around. “That’s not what perfect means.”
His mouth tilts. “It does when it’s on you.”
My breath catches again.
I hate this. I hate how fast my composure is evaporating. I hate how he stands there like he owns the air in the room.
“You’re supposed to be protecting me,” I say, trying to anchor myself.
“I am,” he says.
“And this is… protection?” I gesture between us.
Wyatt’s gaze darkens. “This is me having self-control.”
A knock hits the door.
Hard.
Both of us freeze.
Wyatt’s head turns first, instincts snapping into place. His whole body shifts, going still and lethal in a way that makes my skin prickle.
He holds a finger up at me—silent, commanding—then moves toward the front door.
I stay where I am, heart thudding, the flannel suddenly not cozy at all.
Wyatt opens the door a crack.
Cold air spills in along with two familiar voices.
“Routine check,” a man says—calm, official.
“Wyatt,” a woman adds, amused. “Please tell me you didn’t finally murder someone.”
Wyatt opens the door wider.
Ethan stands there in a ranger jacket, tall and composed, eyes scanning the cabin with practiced calm. Beside him is Maddie—blonde hair tucked under a beanie, smile sharp, gaze already locked on me.
Her eyes flick down the flannel.
Then back up to my face.
Maddie’s mouth quirks. “So… you’re doing mail-order brides now?”
I feel my face ignite.
Wyatt doesn’t even flinch. “Routine check?” he asks, voice flat.
Ethan nods once. “Backcountry cabins. Just making sure everything’s good. Storm’s coming.”
Maddie steps inside without waiting to be invited, the way women do when they’ve decided the rules don’t apply to them. She circles me once like I’m a display at a market, then stops and looks at Wyatt.
