Eight days. Seven after today. He could survive seven days.
The shower shut off, and he heard every sound. The shower curtain sliding back, her feet on the old linoleum, the rustle of fabric as she dressed.
When she emerged, dressed in jeans and a sweater, her damp hair leaving wet spots on the fabric, Marcus had managed to compose himself. Mostly.
“Coffee,” he said, pushing a mug across the tiny counter.
“Thanks.” She wrapped her hands around it, not quite meeting his eyes. “About this morning…”
“Already forgotten,” he lied.
She nodded, though they both knew neither would forget the feeling of waking up intertwined. They moved through their morning routine with exaggerated normalcy: him attempting toast, successfully this time, her reviewing notes on testimony preparation. But in the tiny cabin, every movement brought them into each other’s orbit.
By afternoon, the careful distance they’d maintained was fraying at the edges.
“I need to get past you,” Hazel said, trapped between Marcus and the counter while trying to reach the olive oil on the upper shelf.
“Sorry.” He started to move left just as she went right. They collided, her back pressed to his chest, his hands automatically going to her waist to steady her.
Neither moved.
Her pulse jumped under his palms, quick and wild. His hands spanned her waist easily, thumbs brushing the strip of bare skin where her sweater had ridden up. “Hazel…”
“Don’t.” But she didn’t move away. If anything, she leaned back slightly, fitting against him like she belonged there.
“We can’t keep pretending this isn’t happening.”
She turned in his arms, looking up at him with the same desperate want he’d been fighting for days. “Eight days.”
“I don’t care.” And he didn’t. Not about the trial, not about professional boundaries, not about anything except the way her lips parted as she stared at his mouth.
“Marcus.”
He leaned down. She rose on her toes. Their lips were a breath apart when?—
The smoke alarm shrieked.
They jerked apart to find the pan on the stove billowing smoke. The vegetables they’d been sautéing were now charred black, flames licking at the edges.
“Shit!” Hazel grabbed the pan, dumping it in the sink while Marcus yanked open the single window and waved a dish towel at the screaming alarm.
By the time they’d dealt with the crisis, alarm silenced, pan soaking, window open to clear the smoke, the moment had passed. Or at least, they could pretend it had. The smoke alarm started up again ten seconds later. Marcus hit it with a dish towel until the battery rattled loose.
“Sandwiches?” Hazel suggested, still breathing hard.
“Sandwiches,” Marcus agreed.
They worked without speaking, maintaining maximum distance in the minimal space. They spent the afternoon in studied avoidance: him at the small table with case files, her curled in the chair by the window with a book. But in a cabin barely larger than his Boston office, apart was relative. He heard every page she turned. Noticed every time she shifted position. Caught himself watching her profile against the fading light more times than he could count.
“I’m goingto check the wards,” Hazel announced, setting her book aside.
“I’ll come with you.”
“I can handle it.”
“Hazel.” He gave her a look that said he wasn’t budging on this.
She sighed but didn’t argue further. They stepped outside into the cool evening, the sky streaked with orange and purple. Marcus had just started to relax, breathing in the clean pine air, when he felt them: multiple magical signatures approaching fast.
