Page 97 of Curvy Cabin Fever
“Yeah.” I pull him close again, resting my chin on top of his head the way I’ve done a thousand times before, but now with new understanding. “Let’s go inside.”
We walk back to the cabin side by side, our shoulders bumping in a familiar rhythm. Before we reach the porch, he catches my hand, squeezes once, and lets go.
God, I love this man. Fuck what anyone else thinks.
I push open the door, and warmth spills out to greet us. Aria looks up from her spot on the couch, a smile spreading across her face as she takes us in. Damien glances over from the kitchen counter, his eyes moving between us with quiet understanding.
“There you are,” Aria says. “We were about to send out a search party.”
“No need,” Morgan responds, moving to sit beside her. “We’re here.”
I meet his eyes across the room, and for the first time in my life, I’m not afraid of what comes next.
35
ARIA
The silence hits harder than I expect.
Not the empty kind—just the kind that settles heavily across the cabin once the truck carrying Rhett and Morgan disappears down the long drive. I stand on the porch for a long time after they go, watching the tire tracks wind into the trees until they fade from sight.
Morgan blew me a kiss before he climbed into the passenger seat. Rhett didn’t say much, but the way he squeezed my hand like he was afraid to let go said everything.
And now it’s just me and Damien.
I go inside, blinking back the sting in my throat, and find him still standing in the kitchen, arms crossed, watching me like he knows I’m two steps from losing it.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod, but then shake my head.
Damien walks over slowly and wraps an arm around my shoulders. Not possessively—just reassuringly. Like he always does.
“They’ll come back,” he says into my hair.
“I know.”
“They love you.”
“I know that too.”
He presses a kiss to the top of my head and pulls back enough to look me in the eye. “But you’re mine this week.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Yours?”
“All fucking mine.”
He keeps it light at first—pulling together lunch, teasing me about how bad I am at stacking firewood, showing me how to reset the generator, just in case. We take a walk down the ridge trail before dark, the snow crunching underfoot, our hands brushing more than holding.
It’s domestic and peaceful.
But there’s tension humming just beneath it. The kind that says: this won’t stay quiet for long.
That night, we sit on the couch with mugs of hot cider. Damien stretches an arm across the back, and I curl into his side, warm and full and sleepy from the chill outside.
“I called my landlord today,” I say softly. “Told him I won’t be coming back.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just tightens his arm around me.
