Page 68 of Curvy Cabin Fever
ARIA
Morgan’s still asleep when I slip away from him some hours later.
His arm is warm across my waist, heavy in a way that makes it hard to move—hard to leave. I linger there for a moment, listening to the soft, steady rhythm of his breathing, still riding the aftershocks of everything he said last night. The heat of his body calls me back, tempting me to curl against his chest and forget the rest of the world exists.
But my thoughts won’t stay quiet. They flicker to Rhett and Damien. To all the ways my heart is stretching, making room for things I never thought I’d be allowed to want. My skin still hums with the weight of Morgan’s touch, but it’s something else that calls me outside.
I carefully slide from beneath Morgan’s arm, watching as he stirs briefly before burying his face in the pillow where my head had been. The sight makes my soul ache in a way I’m not ready to explain.
I slip on a hoodie and Morgan’s too-big boots by the door, then leave the cabin silently. The air hits my face like a splash of cold water, clearing my head even as it stings my lungs.
The sound reaches me first—the rhythmic chunk of metal biting wood, followed by the crack of splitting logs. I follow it around the side of the cabin, my feet crunching through the top layer of snow that froze overnight.
Damien is splitting wood—sleeves rolled despite the cold, jaw set, breath puffing in white clouds that dissipate quickly in the winter air. The storm has passed, but he’s still braced for it, still moving like he’s got something to outrun. His movements are precise and controlled—swing, strike, split. No wasted energy or hesitation.
I stand watching him for a moment. There’s something hypnotic about his rhythm, something soothing in his certainty. Unlike Rhett’s intensity or Morgan’s playfulness, Damien just...is. He’s like a mountain that doesn’t need to announce its strength.
He sees me coming and pauses mid-swing, lowering the axe with a controlled motion. He’s always so measured and calm. Sweat beads along his hairline despite the cold, and his t-shirt clings to his chest in ways that remind me he’s not just strong—he’s beautiful in his quiet way.
“Cold?” he asks, noticing my shiver as I step closer. He reaches without hesitation to wrap his flannel around my shoulders. It smells like him—clean sweat and something uniquely Damien.
I nod, pulling the warm fabric tighter. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t comment further or ask where I’ve been or who I’ve been with, though the marks on my neck probably tell the story well enough. He gestures toward the edge of the trees where the morning sun catches on ice-coated branches, turning them to crystal. “Walk with me?”
It’s not a demand or even a question. It’s just an invitation, one I’m free to decline, but I don’t want to.
“Yeah,” I reply. “I’d like that.”
We move in step, the snow crunching beneath our boots. There’s no path, just a direction. And somehow, that feels exactly right—like everything about this strange time we’ve shared in this cabin. No plan, just following where it leads.
The quiet between us isn’t awkward. It never has been. Where Morgan fills silence with jokes and stories, and Rhett charges it with intensity, Damien doesn’t fill space with words at all—he just exists beside you.
After a while, I speak, my voice too loud in the quiet winter morning. “Are you okay?”
It’s a loaded question—one that could mean a dozen different things, given our situation. But Damien seems to understand exactly what I’m asking.
Are you okay with my fucking your best friends, Damien? Worse still, falling for them, too?
He exhales slowly, his breath visible in the cold. “I don’t know.” A pause, then: “This isn’t how I expected things to go when we got snowed in here.”
I look at him sideways. “Are you having regrets?”
Please say no.
“No,” he answers immediately, surprising me with his certainty. “No regrets as such. Just…thoughts.”
We stop near a clearing where the trees break just enough for sunlight to spill through. A small frozen pond gleams in the center, its surface unmarked except where a fallen branch has cracked through the ice at one end. Damien leans back against a thick pine, arms folded across his chest.
“I heard you with Morgan,” he says after a moment, voice low but even. “And Rhett before that.”
I flinch, heat rushing to my face that has nothing to do with the cold. Guilt and something like defiance war inside me. But he holds up a hand before I can speak.
“I’m not judging you; I’m not angry.” His eyes meet mine, dark and intense like they’ve been since the first night. “I just...needed some time.”
I nod, relief washing through me. “I get that.”
A bird lands on a branch above us, shaking loose a shower of snow that catches in Damien’s dark hair. I resist the urge to brush it away.
