six
Aiden
My muscles ache in that good way that comes from honest work. We've spent the whole day battling the aftermath of the storm—clearing paths, securing the cabin, hauling in firewood from the shed. Through it all, Phoebe surprised me with her tenacity. No complaints, just determination and that quick wit of hers.
Night has fallen now, bringing with it a bone-deep cold that seeps through the cabin walls despite our best efforts. The temperature will likely drop into the single digits before morning. But we're prepared this time—fire roaring, extra blankets found in a trunk, snow melted for drinking water, a decent meal cobbled together from our supplies.
Phoebe sits cross-legged on the hearth rug, firelight dancing across her face. She's wrapped in one of my flannel shirts over her own clothes. The sight of her in my clothing does something primitive to my insides. Like I've marked her somehow.
"What?" she asks, catching me staring.
"Nothing." I poke at the fire, adding another log. "Just thinking you handled today better than most locals would have."
She smiles. "Don't sound so surprised. City girls can be tough too."
"Never doubted it."
She reaches into her bag and pulls out a bottle of amber liquid. "I think we've earned this, don't you?"
JP Wisers. Not what I expected from her. I figured wine, maybe some fancy craft cocktail ingredients.
"Didn't take you for a whiskey drinker," I say as she unscrews the cap.
"There's a lot you don't know about me, mountain man." She takes a swig directly from the bottle, doesn't even wince, then passes it to me.
The whiskey burns pleasantly down my throat, warming me from the inside. I hand the bottle back, our fingers brushing in the exchange. Even that brief contact sends electricity through me.
"So," she says, settling back against the couch. "Tell me something I don't know about you."
"Like what?"
She shrugs. "Anything. Favorite color. Deepest fear. Why you choose to live alone in the mountains like some sexy hermit."
I snort at the description. "Sexy hermit?"
"If the flannel fits..." She grins, taking another pull from the bottle.
I find myself wanting to tell her things. Things I don't share with people. Maybe it's the whiskey, or the firelight, or the way she's looking at me like whatever I say matters.
"Blue," I say finally. "Deep blue, like the sky just before full dark."
"See? Was that so hard?" She nudges my knee with her foot. "What else?"
I take the bottle, buying time with another swallow. "I read. A lot. Mostly classics, some history. Philosophy in winter."
Her eyes widen. "You're secretly a nerd!"
"Don't sound so surprised," I echo her earlier words, which earns me a laugh.
"What's your favorite book?"
"Depends on the season."
"What's your winter book, then?"
I hesitate. "Walden. Thoreau."
She nods, thoughtful. "Makes sense. Man alone in nature, finding meaning in simplicity."
"You've read it?"
"English lit minor." She smiles. "What's your summer book?"
"The Old Man and the Sea."
"Also tracks. Man versus nature, elemental struggle, stoicism in the face of hardship." She studies me. "You're very on-brand, Aiden Calloway."
I can't help but smile at that. She sees more than I give her credit for.
"Your turn," I say, passing the bottle back. "What don't I know about you?"
She thinks for a moment. "I hate my job. Hated it,” she amends. “Digital marketing for companies selling things nobody needs. It paid well, but every day felt like selling little pieces of my soul."
"What would you rather do?"
"Write," she says without hesitation. "Stories, articles about places like this. Real things for real people." She takes another drink. "My ex thought it was a stupid dream."
Something hot flares in my chest at the mention of her ex. "He sounds like an idiot."
She laughs, but there's an edge to it. "Kyle was very practical. Very logical. Very boring, looking back."
"How long were you together?"
"Three years. He dumped me the week after I got laid off. Said he 'wasn't ready for this level of instability.'" She makes air quotes, rolling her eyes. "Translation: he wanted the successful girlfriend, not the one facing setbacks."
"His loss," I say quietly.
Our eyes meet across the small space between us, and something shifts in the air. The bottle passes back and forth a few more times. The whiskey loosens my tongue, lowers walls I've kept firmly in place for years.
"I was engaged once," I hear myself say. "Eight years ago."
Phoebe straightens, clearly surprised. "What happened?"
"She got a job offer in Toronto. Big opportunity." I stare into the fire. "I couldn't leave the mountains. Especially not then, with Dad just gone and the store needing someone to run it. She couldn't stay. So."
"I'm sorry," she says softly.
I shrug. "It was the right decision for both of us. She's some big-shot executive now. Married with kids."
"Do you regret it? Not going with her?"
I consider the question honestly. "No. Would have been miserable in a city. Would have resented her eventually. Better this way."
"But you never found anyone else?"
The question should feel invasive, but somehow doesn't. "Hard to meet people up here. Harder to let them in once you do."
"Is that why you tried to sleep on the floor that first night? Why you said sharing the sleeping bag wasn't a good idea?"
"Partly," I admit. "Getting involved with someone temporarily is asking for trouble."
She tilts her head. "Am I temporary, Aiden?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications. The smart answer is yes. She's a city girl who inherited a cabin. She'll fix it up, maybe use it occasionally, and eventually sell it. She doesn't belong here. Not really.
But the truth is more complicated.
"I don't know," I say finally.
She studies me for a long moment, then sets the bottle aside and moves toward me. Graceful despite the whiskey, she settles into my lap, her thighs straddling mine.
"Neither do I," she whispers, her face inches from mine. "But I know I want you. Again. Now."
Her mouth finds mine, tasting of whiskey and desire. My hands move to her hips automatically, pulling her closer. The kiss deepens, turns hungry. Her fingers thread through my hair, tugging slightly in a way that sends heat straight to my groin.
"I've been thinking about this morning," I murmur against her neck. "On the porch. What you did."
She pulls back slightly, a mischievous smile playing at her lips. "Did you like it?"
"Like is too small a word." I run my thumbs along the strip of exposed skin where my shirt has ridden up on her. "Never had anything like that before."
"Really?" Her eyes widen slightly.
"The cold air, the steam, you on your knees in the snow..." I shake my head. "It was fucking incredible."
A pleased flush spreads across her cheeks. "I'm glad. I wanted to make you feel good. After everything you've done for me."
"You don't owe me anything," I say firmly.
"I know. That's not why I did it." She kisses me again, softer this time. "I wanted to."
Something about her phrasing triggers a thought. "Has no one ever wanted to make you feel good?"
Her slight hesitation tells me everything. "Kyle wasn't big on... reciprocating. Said it wasn't his thing."
Anger flares, hot and sudden. What kind of selfish prick accepts pleasure without giving it in return? The thought of her giving without receiving ignites something primal in me.
"His loss," I growl, lifting her suddenly and laying her down on the hearth rug. "My gain."
She looks up at me, eyes wide and dark in the firelight. "What are you doing?"
"Something I've been wanting to do since this morning." I settle between her legs, running my hands up her thighs. "Going to show you what it's like when someone wants to make you feel good."
I unbutton her jeans slowly, giving her time to stop me if she wants. Instead, she lifts her hips, helping me slide them down her legs. Her panties follow, leaving her lower half bare in the warm glow of the fire.
"You're beautiful," I tell her, meaning it. The sight of her spread out before me, my flannel shirt barely covering the tops of her thighs, is the most erotic thing I've ever seen.
I take my time, pressing kisses to her inner thighs, feeling them tremble under my lips. She watches me, her breath coming faster as I move higher, closer to where she wants me.
When I part her folds and I finally taste her, she gasps, head falling back, hands clutching at the rug beneath her. I work her slowly, deliberately, learning what makes her moan, what makes her hips rise to meet my mouth.
"Aiden," she breathes, one hand moving to tangle in my hair. "God, that feels amazing."
I hum against her, the vibration making her buck.
Her thighs quiver as I slip a finger inside her, then another, curling them to find the spot that makes her cry out. I work her with my mouth and hand in tandem, relentless in my pursuit of her pleasure.
"Look at me," I command softly.
Her eyes flutter open, finding mine over the expanse of her body. The connection is electric—her watching me worship her, me seeing the pleasure build in her expression.
"You're so responsive," I murmur against her sensitive flesh. "So perfect."
Her breathing quickens, her internal muscles clenching around my fingers. She's close. I increase the pressure, the speed, driving her toward release. I breathe her in. So musky and hot, dripping down my beard.
"Let go," I urge. "Come for me, Phoebe."
She shatters with my name on her lips, her body arching beautifully as pleasure courses through her. I don't stop, working her through the peak and into aftershocks that have her gasping, until she finally pushes at my shoulders, too sensitive to take more.
I move back up her body, gathering her trembling form against me. Her face is flushed, her eyes half-lidded with satisfaction.
She reaches for my belt, but I catch her hand. "Tonight was about you."
"But you're—"
"I'll survive." I smile, pulling her closer. "Wanted to make it about you. Just you."
She studies my face in the firelight, something soft and wondering in her expression. "Why?"
Because I think I'm falling in love with you. The thought comes unbidden, shocking in its clarity.
"Because you deserve it," I say instead, the safer truth. "Because I wanted to show you how it should be."
She curls against my chest, suddenly looking younger, more vulnerable. "No one's ever put me first like that."
The admission breaks something open inside me. I want to find every person who's ever made her feel secondary and teach them the meaning of regret. Instead, I hold her tighter, let the fire warm us both.
"Their mistake," I whisper into her hair.
We stay like that for a long time, tangled together on the hearth rug, the fire crackling beside us. Outside, the night deepens, stars appearing in a sky cleared by the storm. In here, something else is growing—something I'm not ready to name, something that scares me more than any blizzard.
Because when the roads clear and the world intrudes again, she'll have choices to make. And loving a mountain means accepting its permanence. I am rooted here, like the pines that have weathered countless storms.
The question is whether she's just passing through or planting roots of her own.
I'm afraid to ask. More afraid of the answer. So I hold her instead, pretending this moment could stretch into forever, knowing all the while that nothing in these mountains is guaranteed.
Except change. And loss.
And the certainty that snowmelt always comes, revealing what was hidden beneath.