I exhale a shaky laugh. “You’re going to make me cry.”
Wyatt’s mouth tilts. “Cry later.”
Then he kisses me again, and the mountain disappears.
Steam wraps around us. Stars burn overhead. Wyatt moves with slow, steady devotion, making me feel wanted and safe at the same time, like the two things were always meant to coexist.
When I gasp his name, he murmurs, “That’s it,” like praise.
When I clutch his shoulders, he holds me tighter, like I can’t fall.
And when the water ripples around us and my body shakes with pleasure and relief and love, Wyatt presses his forehead to mine and breathes, “Mine,” like it’s a prayer.
After, we stay in the hot spring with our bodies tangled, the cold air biting at our shoulders and the water keeping us warm.
Wyatt’s palm rests on my belly, thumb stroking slow circles.
I tilt my head, watching him. “You’re thinking.”
Wyatt’s mouth curves. “I’m calculating.”
I lift a brow. “That sounds dangerous.”
His eyes go wicked. “It is.”
I snort. “What are you calculating?”
Wyatt kisses my shoulder, then murmurs, “How many mountain babies we can make under these stars.”
I choke on a laugh. “Wyatt!”
He grins, unrepentant. “Maybe a dozen by the time we’re done.”
I smack his chest lightly. “We are not having twelve children.”
Wyatt’s hand tightens at my waist, pulling me closer. “You say that now.”
I glare at him, but I’m smiling. “I’m serious.”
Wyatt’s gaze drags down my face like he’s already decided my seriousness is adorable. “So am I.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re insane.”
Wyatt kisses my mouth, slow and deep. “You married me anyway.”
I pull back, breathless. “I did.”
Wyatt’s eyes soften, just a fraction. “And you’d do it again.”
I cup his jaw, thumb brushing his beard. “I would.”
Wyatt’s hand presses to my belly, steady and warm. “Good.”
Then he kisses me again under the stars, and the mountain keeps our secret like it always has. Like it always will. Forever.
The End
