Page 47

EMMY

I don’t mean to wake him.

But I can’t help it.

The way his arm is slung heavy over my waist, the heat of him at my back, the soft rasp of his breath against my shoulder—it’s all too much and not enough at the same time.

So I shift.

Not away.

Toward.

Just enough to roll onto my other side, slow and careful, my nose brushing the center of his chest. I burrow in closer. Nuzzle like something small and half-asleep. Like I’ve forgotten how to sleep without the sound of his heartbeat in my ear.

His arms tighten immediately.

Still heavy with sleep, but instinctive.

One arm curls around my back. The other slides up, fingers threading into my hair.

And he hums.

Low and rough, the kind of sound that lives at the bottom of his chest.

“Mornin’, little one,” he murmurs, not even fully awake.

I smile before I can stop it.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

His palm moves in a slow circle at my lower back.

“Not complaining.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s full of warmth. Of soft light cutting through the curtains. Of the dogs shifting somewhere near the foot of the bed. Of the way I’m curled against him like I belong here.

And somehow—I think I do.

I press my face into his chest.

He lets me.

No questions. No pressure.

Just his lips at the top of my head. Just his hand on my back. Just his heartbeat beneath my cheek like a promise.

His lips brush the top of my head again.

And for a while, that’s all there is.

Breath. Warmth. The faint creak of wood somewhere deep in the cabin as it shifts with the morning air.

Then, soft:

“Was thinking we could take the dogs through the woods.”

His voice is low and warm, gravel and heat and still so tender. When I glance up, there’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—like the thought of walking with me and the dogs is enough to make his whole morning.

I hum. Nuzzle closer.

“Not too far,” he adds. “Just the trail that loops back by the ridge. I’ll pack a lunch.”

A pause. His fingers stroke through my hair again, slower this time.

“And later, maybe you show me that writing you pretend doesn’t exist.”

I freeze. Just a little.

He chuckles under his breath.

“That notebook you keep moving around like I won’t notice? I’ve noticed, little one.”

My cheeks burn, my chest fluttering like a secret's just been exposed—and he’s holding it like it’s precious, not shameful.

I don’t say anything, but I don’t pull away either.

He tucks the quilt tighter around me, thumb brushing the edge of my shoulder before lingering just a second too long. Like it matters to him more than I’ll ever understand. Kisses my temple again.

“You don’t have to,” he says. “Just thought… if you wanted to share. I’d listen. All day, if you'll let me.”

I think my heart forgets how to beat for a second.

Then, quietly:

“I might want that.”

“I know,” he says softly. “I could feel it.”

I don’t answer right away.

I think maybe I can’t.

His words fill too much of me.

The quiet promise of them. The way he says things like they’re already true, like they’ve always been true, and he’s just reminding me gently.

He strokes my back again, slow and sure.

“And I thought,” he murmurs, “if we get enough sun and fresh air in us, you might even nap this afternoon.”

I make a face against his chest. “I don’t nap.”

He huffs a soft laugh, all warm breath and affection. “You say that now.”

I feel the smile tug at the corner of my mouth.

“And after your nap,” he continues, as if I haven’t just disagreed, “I’ll reheat the stew from yesterday. And you’ll pretend you don’t like the carrots, even though you finished them all last time.”

I pinch his side lightly.

He doesn’t flinch.

Just shifts a little so he can look down at me, smirking.

“You did finish them, Emmy.”

I bury my face deeper in his chest. “I was being polite.”

He laughs again, low and warm and mine.

“I’m gonna make you eat ‘em again today,” he says.

“Of course you are.”

He leans down. Kisses the top of my head.

Warmth spills through me—low and quiet and full. The kind that softens every edge, that makes me want to curl in tighter and stay there forever. I feel claimed. Protected. Like the world could wait just a little longer.

“Good girl.”

I feel it everywhere.

Low in my belly. High in my throat. Deep in my chest.

And when I lift my eyes to him, he’s already watching me.

Soft. Steady. Like he has nowhere else to be.

Like I’m the whole damn day.

Eventually, I shift.

Not because I want to. Just because the sun is creeping in higher, and the smell of the cabin—wood, morning, him—is making me a little too sleepy again.

Cal lets me stretch. Watches me like I might vanish if he looks away.

“You can’t go outside in just that,” he says, his voice low and warm.

I blink down at myself, the hem of his flannel shirt grazing the tops of my thighs. “It covers everything.”

“It barely covers everything,” he murmurs, mouth close to my ear. “And believe me, sweetheart—if I take you out there like this, we’re not makin’ it to the trail.”

Heat floods my face.

But when I glance up, his gaze is playful. Steady. So steady.

And without asking, without fanfare, he steps away just long enough to grab a pair of soft black leggings and some thick socks from the basket near the hearth.

He kneels in front of me like it’s nothing.

Like it’s everything. I hear the quiet thud of his knees on the wooden floor, steady and sure. The warmth of his gaze settles over me as his hands come to rest at my calves, grounding and reverent, like he’s about to dress something sacred.

“Step in,” he says.

I do.

He pulls them up carefully, slowly, like dressing me is something sacred. His palms skim my calves, my knees, the outsides of my thighs. All firm. All sure. Never lingering where he shouldn’t—but not rushing either.

When the waistband settles at my hips, he smooths the fabric once.

And then presses a soft kiss just below my belly button, over the cotton. My breath catches—shallow and quick—as heat blooms low and slow in my belly. It feels reverent, claiming, like he’s marking a part of me that’s never been touched like this before.

“Perfect.”

My breath stutters.

He adds the socks next—each one tugged snug, his thumb brushing along my ankle like he can’t not touch.

Then he stands. Looks at me like he’s seeing sunrise all over again.

And with no warning at all, he lifts me.

I squeak.

“Cal—!”

He chuckles, already pulling my legs around his waist, his arms locked firm beneath me.

“You wanna walk to breakfast,” he murmurs, “or you wanna be carried like the spoiled little thing I plan to keep?”

I bury my face in his shoulder.

“Koala it is,” he says, smug.

He doesn’t put me down.

Not when we pass through the hallway. Not when Cleo stretches and trots ahead, tail high. Not when Luca yawns and follows close behind, brushing his big head against Cal’s thigh like he’s part of the morning rhythm too.

Cal just shifts me higher, one arm wrapped beneath my thighs, the other adjusting around my back.

I curl closer without thinking.

“You gonna hold me the whole time?” I mumble against his shoulder.

“If I can help it,” he says.

And then we’re in the kitchen.

He nudges the stove on with his hip, still carrying me like I weigh nothing. One-handed, he pours water into the kettle, flips the switch.

Reaches for the eggs. The bread. The pan.

“Let me help,” I whisper, even though I’m not sure I want to move.

“You are helping,” he says, opening the fridge with a flex of his foot. “You’re sitting right where I want you.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

So I just hold on.

Let the sounds of the cabin wrap around us—low heat ticking beneath the pan, dogs settling on the floor, the kettle starting its quiet hiss.

His shirt still brushes the tops of my legs.

His heartbeat still thuds under my palm.

He cooks like he does everything else—with purpose. No wasted motion. Every step made softer by the fact that I’m here. In his arms. Being kept.

And I think—

Maybe I could stay like this forever.

By the time the eggs are finished and the toast is golden, the kettle lets out a soft whistle.

Cal pours the water into two mugs—mine already steeping with the exact tea I like. Not because I asked. Because he just… knows.

Then he carries the plate to the table.

And me, too.

Still hasn’t put me down.

He sits first, and I settle into his lap like I’ve done it a hundred times. Like I was meant to.

He shifts the plate closer. Cuts one of the slices of toast in half.

“Eat,” he says gently.

I glance down at the fork in his hand.

He raises his eyebrows, already loading it with a bite of scrambled egg.

My lips part automatically.

He hums low as I chew, then presses a kiss to my temple.

“Good girl.”

I blush. It’s not new. But it still makes my chest feel too small for my heart.

He feeds me another bite.

Then a third.

Between each one, he murmurs soft things. Nothing extravagant. Just… steady.

“You’re quiet today.”

“You look warm like this.”

“You like sitting on Daddy’s lap, don’t you?”

I go redder with each word. Especially Daddy.

But I don’t look away.

I just finish chewing. And when he reaches for another piece of toast, I stop him.

“Wait.”

His hand pauses.

I pick up a small piece of bacon with my fingers. Turn in his lap, just enough to hold it up.

His brows lift.

“You feeding me now?” he rumbles, head tilting slightly, a slow grin tugging at his mouth as his eyes darken just enough to make my breath catch.

“Just one,” I say.

He leans in, slow.

His lips brush my fingertips as he takes it, and the look he gives me after nearly knocks the air from my lungs.

“Careful, little one,” he murmurs. “You’re playing with fire.”

I grin—shy, but there.

And settle back against his chest like that was all I ever needed to do.

I don’t move for a while.

Not even when he finishes feeding me. Not when he eats what’s left with one hand, his other still wrapped securely around my waist.

We just… stay.