Page 39 of Curvy Cabin Fever

ARIA

B y morning, it’s like they never left.

Morgan’s already taken command of the kitchen, muttering about the “cooking crimes” that happened in his absence while he surveys the pantry.

Damien tosses him a kitchen towel without looking up from his coffee mug, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

Outside through the frosted window, I can see Rhett chopping kindling, his broad shoulders bare despite the morning chill, muscles flexing with each swing of the axe.

I lean against the doorframe with my steaming cup, watching all three of them move through the space we now share. There’s something mesmerizing about the way they orbit each other—chaotic yet synchronized, unusual yet somehow perfect.

What strikes me most is the ease of it all. No one tiptoes around each other, no one seems uncertain of their place. They move like dancers who’ve rehearsed this routine a thousand times, anticipating each other’s movements, making space, filling gaps.

When Rhett finally comes in from the cold, cheeks flushed and hair damp with sweat, he walks straight to me. His lips brush my cheek in casual affection before he takes my coffee cup from my hands and helps himself to a long sip.

“You're lucky you’re hot,” I murmur, unable to summon any real annoyance as I watch his throat work.

He returns my mug with a satisfied hum. ‘I know.”

From the stove, Morgan flips a perfect golden pancake onto a plate and slides it before me with a flourish. “He’s not even the hottest one here,” he announces, eyes twinkling with mischief.

Damien leans over my shoulder, the scent of his soap mingling with the maple sweetness rising from my plate. “Can you not do this while she’s eating?”

I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from my chest. This playful rivalry, this good-natured competition that once made me feel awkward, now wraps around me like a familiar blanket.

Their bickering has become the background music to my days, a melody I’m learning to live with rather than observe from a distance.

Breakfast unfolds as it always does—legs brushing beneath the wooden table, shoulders bumping as we reach for syrup, plates passing between us. When Morgan deftly maneuvers a forkful of pancake directly into Damien’s mouth, he chews thoughtfully before delivering his verdict: “It’s fine.”

“It’s divine,” Morgan corrects, brandishing his spatula like a conductor’s baton. “Show some respect to culinary perfection.”

Rhett watches them with affectionate exasperation, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “We’ve created a monster.”

“You chose the monster,” I remind him, licking maple syrup from my thumb.

He leans closer, his voice dropping to a register that sends warmth curling through my belly. “I’d choose him again.” His gaze slides meaningfully to Morgan, then back to me. “Both of you.”

The day unfolds with unhurried contentment.

We hang new curtains I’d discovered in a small shop in town, the fabric softening the winter light that streams through the windows.

Rhett methodically arranges a second desk in the back room, measuring twice before positioning it perfectly for his remote work.

In the kitchen, Morgan embarks on a complete reorganization of the spice cabinet, pausing occasionally to label certain containers with dramatic flair—“Aria-safe” on the milder blends, “Damien’s Inferno Blend” on others.

As evening settles around the cabin, we gather for cards at the coffee table.

My winning streak continues unbroken, despite Morgan’s increasingly creative accusations of cheating.

No one seems particularly surprised by my dominance, least of all Rhett, who simply shuffles the deck with practiced precision after each of my victories.

Later, we migrate to the couch, all four of us huddled beneath a single oversized blanket that Morgan had insisted was “big enough for the whole damn state of Colorado.” Damien reads quietly from his tablet, the blue glow illuminating his sharp features.

Rhett stretches out beside me, his head resting in my lap, eyes closed in contentment as my fingers absently stroke through his hair.

Morgan sits beside Rhett, humming a melody I don’t recognize but find strangely comforting.

Time seems to lose all meaning in these moments. The clock on the mantel ticks steadily onward, but none of us pay it any mind. There’s no urgency, no schedule to keep, no world outside this cabin demanding our attention.

This, I realize with sudden clarity, is what love looks like. Not the frantic passion of new romance, not the honeymoon period, but this—this quiet certainty, this shared space, this belonging.

We don’t discuss the future that night. There’s no need for declarations or promises or plans. The decision has already been made, not in a single dramatic moment, but in a thousand small choices that led us here—to this cabin, to each other, to a life we’re building together.

The four of us.

Rhett’s breathing evening out as he drifts toward sleep in my lap. Damien’s watchful presence beside me. Morgan’s humming.

We’ve already chosen our future.

Together.