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.”