Page 11
"Stay," I murmur against her temple, surprising myself with the request. "Just... stay with me one more day."
She nods, understanding what I'm asking—and what I'm not. I lead her to my bedroom, and she follows without hesitation. The trust in that simple action nearly brings me to my knees.
We settle onto the bed together, and she curls into me naturally, her head finding the spot over my heart. I pull the quilt over us both, tucking her closer, needing to feel her warmth against me.
Her breathing gradually slows, becoming deep and even, but I stay awake, one hand stroking her hair, watching the storm through the window.
For the first time in years, the silence of my cabin doesn't feel empty.
And as Sadie sighs contentedly in her sleep, burrowing deeper into my embrace, I realize I've already broken every rule I set for myself.
And I don't regret it one bit.
Chapter 5 – Sadie
I'm not sure when I drifted into this half-asleep state, caught between the lingering warmth of Vincent's kiss and the growing light of dawn.
I don’t know for how long we’ve stayed here, his arms around me, my head on his chest, neither of us sleeping but neither of us willing to break this fragile peace.
His heartbeat has been my anchor, steady and strong beneath my ear.
Sometimes his fingers trace patterns on my back through the flannel shirt I'm wearing, and each touch feels like a confession. Like he's writing words on my skin he can't say out loud.
But as the morning light grows stronger, I can feel him withdrawing.
Not physically—his arms are still around me, one hand tangled in my hair—but emotionally.
His body is tensing, muscles going rigid beneath me, and his breathing has changed from deep and relaxed to something more controlled. More guarded.
I want to preserve this moment, to stay in the quiet dark where he kissed me like I was precious, where he whispered "stay" against my lips like a prayer.
But reality is creeping in with the dawn, and I can feel him building walls between us with each passing minute.
"Vincent?" I whisper, hating how uncertain my voice sounds.
His hand stills in my hair. "Hmm?"
"Are you—" I stop, not sure how to ask if he regrets it. If it was a mistake. If the way he kissed me, touched me, held me meant anything at all.
He shifts then, carefully disentangling himself from me, and the loss of his warmth feels like a physical ache.
The bed dips as he sits up, his broad back a wall between us. Morning light streams through the window, highlighting the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands grip the edge of the mattress.
"We should get up," he says, his voice rough with something I can't identify. "Make coffee."
But he doesn't move. Just sits there, rigid and conflicted, like he's fighting some internal battle I can't see.
I remember how gentle his hands were just a few moments ago, how his lips trembled against mine when he first kissed me.
That wasn't nothing. That wasn't just comfort or convenience.
Before I can stop myself, I reach out and touch his back. Just a brush of fingers against cotton, but he stiffens like I've branded him.
The reaction hurts, but I refuse to pull away. Not this time. Not when I can still feel the ghost of his lips on mine, still hear the way he whispered my name in the dark.
"Don't," he says, but he doesn't pull away.
"Why not?"
