“Were you?” Her eyes flick down to my mouth, then back up. “Or were you trying not to look like you wanted to drag me into the back room?”
My jaw tightens. “Don’t start.”
Ellie’s smile turns wicked. “Why not?”
“Because I will.”
Her breath catches—tiny, involuntary.
Then she lets go and steps back like she didn’t just light a match and toss it at gasoline. “Come on, firefighter. Take me home.”
Home.
The word lands heavy in my chest.
We drive back up the mountain with the last light bleeding out behind the peaks. Ellie hums with the radio like she’s always belonged in my truck, like she didn’t arrive here terrified and desperate and furious at the world.
She rests her hand on my thigh halfway up the road.
Not gripping. Not clinging.
Claiming.
I keep my eyes on the road, but my voice roughens. “You’re playing with me.”
Ellie’s fingers flex lightly on my leg. “No.”
“Then what are you doing?”
Her eyes are on me, and her voice goes soft. “Choosing.”
The cabin is warm when we get inside, quiet in the way it’s supposed to be. Not the scary quiet from those first nights. A safe quiet. A lived-in quiet.
Ellie kicks off her boots and turns to face me.
She’s still in her apron. Still smells like cocoa and sugar and victory.
I step closer, and this time I don’t stop a foot away. I put my hands on her waist, feel her body under my palms, feel her exhale like she’s been waiting for it.
Ellie’s eyes lift to mine. “I’m still wearing your flannel.”
“I know,” I murmur.
She swallows. “You going to tell me to take it off?”
I slide my hands up her ribs, slow. “No.”
Her brows lift. “No?”
“I’m going to take my time,” I say.
Ellie’s lips part. “Bossy.”
“Always.”
She pushes at my chest lightly. “Wyatt.”
I catch her wrists and pin them gently against my shirt. Not rough. Just firm enough to make her eyes flare.
