Page 9

Five

M arley

The silence in the cabin is different from any quiet I've ever experienced.

No hum of electricity, no distant traffic, no neighbors in adjacent apartments.

Just the crackle of the fire and the sound of Cade moving around the small space with the kind of easy confidence that comes from knowing exactly where everything belongs.

I sit on the edge of his bed—the only place to sit that isn't the floor—and watch him prepare lunch. Everything he does is methodical, purposeful. No wasted movements, no hesitation. It's like watching someone perform a dance they've done a thousand times.

"You're staring," he says without turning around.

Heat floods my cheeks. "I'm observing. For research purposes."

"Uh-huh." He glances over his shoulder with that slight smile I'm beginning to recognize. "What exactly are you researching?"

"The way you move. It's very...efficient." I tuck my legs up under me, trying to get comfortable on the narrow mattress. "From an anthropological perspective, it suggests complete familiarity with your environment, which indicates—"

"Marley."

"What?"

"You're doing that thing again where you turn everything into data instead of just experiencing it. Like how good my ass looks in these jeans."

I open my mouth to argue, then close it.

He's right. Even here, in this tiny cabin in the middle of nowhere, I'm defaulting to academic analysis instead of just..

.being present. Instead of admitting that I've been staring at his ass and wondering what it would feel like under my hands.

How it would feel to touch him everywhere.

"I don't know how to not analyze things," I admit, squirming on the bed as my body starts that familiar ache that means I'm in trouble. "It's kind of my default setting."

"I’ve noticed." He turns back to whatever he's cooking, he’s chopping and throwing things in a sizzling pan and I catch the scent of something that makes my stomach growl despite my nervousness.

And despite the fact that I'm getting wet just watching him move around his space like he owns everything in it.

Which he does. Possibly including me. "We'll work on that. "

Twenty minutes later, he sets two bowls on the small wooden table near the window and gestures for me to join him on the simple bench he's pulled in from outside. The stew smells amazing, but I find myself staring at it instead of eating.

"Something wrong with the food?" he asks.

"No, it smells really good." I stir the stew with my spoon, buying time. "I'm just not that hungry."

"When's the last time you ate?"

I think about it. "A granola bar this morning?"

"That’s not a meal." He shifts on the bench to face me, close enough that our thighs are touching. "Eat."

"I'm really not—"

"Marley." His voice has gone firmer. "Eat the food."

Something in his tone makes my stomach clench, but not with hunger. With a weird combination of anxiety and discomfort.

"I don't usually eat in front of people," I say quietly.

"Why not?"

The question is simple, but the answer is complicated.

"My parents were very...particular about food when I was growing up.

About portions, about what I ate, even making sure my food didn't touch.

They would never have served stew either.

Too many ingredients mixed up. No way to know your macros.

They lived by the 'what can be measured can be improved' philosophy. "

“Mixing macros sounds fun,” Cade says with a smirk, then his eyes darken when I don’t muster a smile.

“Baby, it’s just food. It’s not a judgment about who you are.

If your parents made you feel this way, even if it was from a misguided place of love, well, let’s just say I’m going to have a little heart-to-heart with them soon enough.

But right now, stop thinking so fucking much and follow your gut. ”

Right on que my stomach twists with a groan as I shrug.

Programming from as far back as I can remember tightens around my windpipe as I stir the stew again, watching the chunks of meat and vegetables swirl around.

"They wanted to make sure I stayed focused on academics instead of getting distracted by typical teenage concerns like body image and boys.”

"So they controlled what you ate."

It isn't a question, and something in his voice makes me look up. His expression is carefully neutral, but there's a hardness around his eyes that hasn't been there before.

"They were just trying to help me stay on track," I say, the familiar defense rising automatically. "It worked. I graduated early, got into a good graduate program—"

"And now you're nineteen years old and afraid to eat in front of people."

His bluntness doesn’t feel judgmental but it still stings. "I'm not afraid. I just prefer to eat alone."

"Bullshit." He takes the bowl from my hands and scoops up a spoonful of the brown mixture. "Open your mouth."

"What? No. I can feed myself."

"Open. Your. Mouth."

The command sends heat spiraling through me that has nothing to do with embarrassment. There's something about his complete certainty, his refusal to accept my protests, that makes part of me want to obey without question.

"This is ridiculous," I whisper, but I open my mouth.

"I'm taking the pressure off," he says quietly. "Not because you can't do it yourself, but because you shouldn’t have to right now. Let me take care of you, baby, like I did last night in the coat room. Like I did this morning against my wall. Let me show you how good it can feel to just receive."

The talk of what we did this morning, and what we did last night, should make me blush. Instead it makes me take stock. He’s right, he’s taken care of me in ways I didn’t even know were possible.

What’s one un-tracked meal against all that?

The savory warmth of the food spreads over my tongue, making me moan. It’s rich and savory with herbs I can't identify. But more than that, there's something unexpectedly intimate about letting him feed me, about trusting him to decide how much I need.

"Good girl," he murmurs, scooping another spoonful.

"I can do it myself now."

"I know you can.” His voice is a softer rumble as he brings the spoon to my lips again. "But for now, I’m doing it. No guilt. No rules. Just me, you, and this moment. Open."

The words make something tight in my chest loosen. When's the last time someone wanted to take care of me? When's the last time I let them?

I open my mouth for the next bite, and the next, letting him feed me until the bowl is empty, and my stomach feels satisfied for the first time in longer than I can remember.

"Better?" he asks.

"Better." I say and he looks so satisfied. Like he just won something big. . "How did you know to do that?"

"Because it’s what you needed. And that’s important to me." He sets the empty bowl aside and shifts on the bench so he's facing me fully, dragging his massive hand over his mouth before finishing. "Taking care of you isn’t just keeping you safe from bears and hypothermia.."

"Taking care of me?"

"That's what this is, Marley." He releases a sigh as he leans back against the wooden wall, doing that wide man spread that is so simple, but so sexy I get that shuddering feeling that tracks up from my belly all the way to my chest. "You’re valuable, baby, and I take care of what’s mine."

He reaches forward, pressing his hand on the side of my head, fingers lightly scratching through the hair and God, why does that feel so good?

The possessive statement should set off alarm bells. Instead, it makes me lean into his touch like a cat seeking warmth.

"I don't understand what's happening to me," I whisper.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know what's wrong with me. My parents controlled everything - my food, my classes, my whole life path. I should hate being told what to do. But with you..." I search his face, confused by my own reactions. "I keep wanting you to just...handle things. Tell me what to do. It makes no sense."

"There’s a difference between being controlled and being nurtured. Giving me the power is brave, baby. It’s the ultimate choice."

“I guess it is. I never gave them the power, they just always had it or took it. It feels like I’m giving it to you. It’s different.” The honesty feels dangerous, but somehow necessary. "Maybe because you make me feel safe? Like my achievements aren’t some testament to your value?"

"That's part of it." His thumb continues its gentle stroking across my cheek. "What else?"

I think about it, trying to put into words something I barely understand myself.

"You see me. Not just the smart girl or the good student or the weird girl who hates itchy tags on her clothes.” I reach behind my neck on a grimace and scratch.

That one kid in school who never quite fits in. You see...me."

He pulls my hand away from the back of my neck, tugging my shirt collar out and I hear a soft ripping sound. He pats it back in place, reaching over and tossing the tag into the fire.

"I do see you." His voice has gone softer, gentler. "I see how hard you've been working to be perfect for everyone else. I see how tired you are from carrying all that pressure. And I see how much you need someone to tell you it's okay to let go."

The words press against my heart, accurate enough to steal my breath. "Is it? Okay to let go?"

He leans closer, close enough that I can feel his breath against my lips. "I'll always be there to catch you, little girl. I promise."

Before I can second-guess myself, I follow my gut.

I grab the sides of his face, close the bit of distance between us and kiss him so hard, his teeth bite into my lower lip. It's clumsy and inexperienced, but he takes control immediately, one hand fisting in my hair while the other pulls me closer.

When we break apart, I'm breathing hard and probably looking at him like he's just solved every problem I've ever had.