Page 10

Sawyer

She’s still wearing my clothes, even though we picked up her luggage when we were in town. There’s sunlight cutting across the bed in golden streaks, catching the curve of her hip as she stretches with a soft, satisfied hum.

She opens one eye, looks over at me, and smiles. That smile. It hits me like it always does, low in my gut and somewhere even deeper I don’t like to name.

“Hi,” she murmurs.

“Hey.”

She sits up slowly, tugging the edge of the shirt down over her thighs as she swings her legs off the bed. My T-shirt looks better on her. I watch her pad across the loft, hair swaying as she descends the ladder barefoot and still sleep-warm. I follow a minute later, throwing on sweats and tugging a hoodie over my head, but the scene I walk into nearly stops me cold.

She’s already boiling water. Reaching for the coffee tin. Humming under her breath. Like she’s done this a hundred times, like this is her home.

I know it’s stupid. I know we’ve had less than a handful of mornings like this. It feels like something’s clicked into place. Some gear in me that stopped turning years ago has started again. Smooth and easy.

She turns when she hears me step into the kitchen. “I hope you don’t mind. I figured it was either make coffee or start going feral.”

“You’ve got survival instincts.”

She smirks. “A whole lifetime running on caffeine.”

I reach for a mug, brushing past her to get it, and she doesn’t move away. Her hip leans into mine. Her hand curls around my forearm. Just for a second. Just long enough to remind me what it felt like to fall asleep with her tucked under my arm and wake up to her in my bed.

She pours the water into the French press and we wait together, quiet and close.

“How’d you sleep?” I ask.

Her eyes flick to mine. “Good. Really good.”

Something flickers in her expression. Not nervousness, exactly. Just weight. Like she’s feeling the bigness of this, same as I am.

She adds, “Being with you like that. It feels—”

“Perfect,” I finish.

She nods, almost shy. “Exactly.”

I slide the plunger down and pour her a mug. We sit at the table, knees bumping under the surface, hands wrapped around steaming ceramic, just looking at each other.

“I’ve never had anything like this,” I admit.

Her brows lift slightly.

“Not just the sex.” I glance at the bed, and she smiles. “I mean the mornings. The part after. The part where I don’t want to run.”

She’s quiet for a second. “Me neither.”

There’s more I could say. Probably should. But I’ve never been a man who speaks to fill silence. So I reach across the table and thread my fingers through hers instead. She squeezes three times.

She then asks, “Do you think it could be someone you know?”

The shift in tone is gentle, but it still pulls me back to the real world. The stalker. The camera. The weight that never quite leaves.

I shake my head slowly. “I don’t know. Could be a local. Could be someone who knows you, not me.”

Her grip tightens slightly. “That’s the part that makes me feel bad. I might have brought this danger into your life.”

“You didn’t.”

“But what if it is someone I’ve crossed paths with before? What if they followed me here?”

“Tessa.”

She looks up.

“You didn’t bring this. And you’re not alone in it.”

She nods and looks down at our hands. There’s a tension winding up inside her, one I’ve seen creeping in since we got back yesterday. It’s not panic. Not fear, exactly. Just… restlessness.

“You need out of the cabin for a while,” I say.

She glances up.

“You’re getting twitchy.”

“I’m not twitchy.”

“You’re vibrating.”

She sighs, leans back in the chair. “I’m used to movement. To streets and people and noise. This place is beautiful, but my thoughts are too loud in stillness.”

That’s my fear, that she won’t want to stay here in the middle of nowhere. Her life is in the city and she’s used to the noise.

“Alright,” I say. “Let’s go for a walk.”

Her eyes brighten. “Really?”

I nod. “Just through the woods. Someplace open but quiet. We’ll stay close to the ridge trail.”

She’s already pulling on my flannel from yesterday, stuffing her feet into boots she borrowed last time the power went out.

I grab the small backpack I keep stocked with water, snacks, a flashlight, and my knife. The second we step outside, the wind lifts her hair, and she exhales like it’s her first real breath all day.

I watch her turn her face to the sky. Watch the way her cheeks color from the cold. Watch her stretch like the sun might kiss her bones if she opens up enough. I walk beside her, but she reaches for my hand and laces our fingers without a word. God help me, I don’t ever want to let go.

We hike in easy silence, just the sound of boots crunching over pine needles and the creak of tree limbs overhead. The woods smell clean after the storm—wet bark and earth and that unmistakable mossy green scent that hits deep in the chest.

She chatters occasionally, pointing out birds, making up names for unfamiliar plants, and mocking a particularly lumpy tree just like someone who grew up far from this kind of landscape.

I let her talk. Let her fill the space with color and light. She’s good at turning the ordinary into something you want to hold onto.

When we reach a clearing, I stop and tug her hand gently. “Come here.”

She steps closer, and I guide her toward a moss-covered boulder overlooking a small dip in the land. From here, you can see the slope of the mountain, the dark stretch of pine canopy, and the way the clouds peel back just enough to let the sun through.

She stares for a long moment. Then whispers, “Okay. This was worth the hike.”

I wrap my arms around her from behind, chin on her shoulder. “Thought you might like it.”

She rests her hands over mine, and we stand like that for a while, swaying gently in the breeze, completely wrapped up in each other. Then she turns in my arms, slides her fingers into my hoodie, and tugs me closer, kissing me deeply.

My hands slide under her flannel, over the soft curve of her waist. She presses against me, rising on her toes, mouth warm and sweet. When she pulls back, her breath is uneven. Her cheeks flushed.

“I’m going to keep kissing you in inappropriate outdoor locations,” she says.

“Good.”

She tilts her head. “That was very un-Sawyer of you.”

“Maybe I’m evolving.”

“Careful. You might get a reputation for being romantic.”

I lean in and kiss her again—just to prove a point. And maybe because I can’t not kiss her. We kiss for what feels like hours. Against trees. Against the boulder. In the slanting light of late morning, with no audience but the forest.

Eventually, she exhales a dreamy sigh and presses her forehead to mine. “I don’t want to go back yet.”

“Then we won’t.”

We sit on the rock, shoulder to shoulder, sharing a bottle of water and the last granola bar in the pack. She picks out the chocolate chips and feeds them to me, grinning the whole time.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, I realize this isn’t temporary.

She might still leave. She might still have a plane ticket or a deadline waiting for her, but what’s growing between us? It’s not just something we’ll both look back on and smile about someday. This is a before-and-after. This is where everything changes.

If she asks me to follow her, wherever she goes, I already know my answer.