Page 91 of Curvy Cabin Fever
Morgan presses a kiss to my temple, his lips lingering against my skin. “Then let’s figure it out. Together. One step at a time.”
Damien nods, the corner of his mouth lifting in that barely-there smile that I’ve learned to recognize as genuine happiness. “We’ve got time.”
Rhett rubs a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. “I feel like I should panic,” he mutters, though there’s a hint of wry humor beneath the words now.
“Youarepanicking,” Morgan points out, grinning a little. “But we love you, anyway.”
Rhett shoots him a look, but it’s less defensive than usual. There’s something like wonder in his eyes, as though he’s still adjusting to the idea of who he truly is—and not being rejected for it.
And for the first time in days, I feel like I’m not drowning in the unknown. The future still stretches before us, uncharted and uncertain, but at least we’re navigating it together rather than me trying to find my way alone.
It’s a nice feeling.
We sit around the table for the next hour, tossing out ideas between bites of Morgan’s pancakes and refills of coffee. The conversation flows naturally, punctuated by laughter and serious moments in equal measure.
Could we live in town?
Could I stay at the cabin and they commute?
Do we tell people?
What do we tell people?
How do we structure our days, our nights, our lives around this unconventional arrangement we’re all still learning to define?
Morgan jokes about renting a house big enough to fit four bedrooms for appearances and one massive bed we’d actually use. Rhett suggests they rotate nights, his practical mind already working through logistics. Damien just says, “She’s not going anywhere,” with such certainty that it settles something restless inside me.
And maybe that’s all I really needed to hear. That whatever shape this takes, whatever challenges we face, they’re committed to making room for me in theirreallives. Not as a temporary diversion during a snowstorm.
When the talk winds down, Rhett clears his throat, setting his empty mug on the table with deliberate care. “I’ll drive you to return the car tomorrow,” he says, avoiding my gaze.
Damien steps forward, resting his hand on Rhett’s shoulder in a gesture of solidarity. “We’ll all go,” he corrects, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Morgan smirks, his eyes dancing with mischief. “Family road trip?” he suggests, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that breaks the remaining tension.
Rhett groans, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters.
I laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep inside me, somewhere that had been silent for too long before I found myself stranded with these three men who have somehow become essential to my happiness.
And something inside me settles. Because I’m not alone—Not anymore. Whatever tomorrow brings—rental car returns, decisions about where to live, how to tell the world about us, how to navigate the complexity of loving three different men in three different ways—I don’t have to face it by myself.
We’ll figure it out together, one step at a time.
33
ARIA
The coffee’s been sitting untouched in my mug for twenty minutes.
I’m at the table, staring out the window like it might give me answers. Outside, the snow is melting. Trees drip slowly. The roof creaks as weight shifts. The road is visible again, a dark ribbon cutting through the white landscape that has kept us sheltered for weeks.
The storm is gone.
So why do I feel like it’s just getting started?
I haven’t packed. My suitcase is still half-shoved under the bed, the clothes inside a wrinkled mess from when I last rummaged through them looking for something warm. My flight confirmation is buried in my inbox, unopened and accusing. The rental car keys are in the fruit bowl on the counter, sitting on top of an orange no one has touched since we bought groceries last week.
I should get ready. I should be folding clothes, checking departure times, making sure I haven’t forgotten chargers or toiletries. I should prepare myself to leave this place that was never supposed to become home.
