Page 15 of Mountain Daddy

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“Stay,” she whispers, eyes soft and pleading. “Please. Make me warm.”

My heart slams against my ribs.

I know what she means.

I know what she wants.

I know what I want.

Every line I’ve drawn burns away like paper in a flame.

And I sit beside her.

Because there is no universe, no storm, no rule that could keep me from her now.

FIVE

CELIA

The storm rages outside. But in Wells’s bedroom, the world has gone quiet.

He sits beside me on the edge of the bed, snow melting on his shoulders, jaw tight, eyes dark. For a moment neither of us speaks. His presence fills the room—big and warm, like the fire crackling behind him. I can’t look away.

He raises a hand, brushing a damp strand of hair off my cheek. His fingers linger just long enough to make my breath stutter.

“Are you warm enough?” he asks, voice low.

“Not yet.”

Maybe it’s the storm.

Maybe it’s the fear of what almost happened in that drift.

Maybe it’s the week we’ve spent circling each other like planets pulled by gravity.

But I reach for his hand.

He hesitates for a fraction of a second—one breath, one heartbeat—before he shifts closer on the bed. Only an inch, but it changes everything.

“Lie back,” he murmurs.

I do, sliding up against the pillows. He stretches out beside me, still fully clothed, but his body is heat and solidity and comfort. He tugs the heavy quilt over both of us.

The fire crackles.

Snow slams against the window.

But here—right here—it’s warm.

I turn to face him.

He mirrors me.

We lie like that, staring at each other, breaths mingling, chests rising and falling in sync.

“I could’ve lost you tonight,” he says quietly.

“You didn’t.”

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