Chapter 6
Chapter Six
RED
The fire's burned down to embers, and I should be asleep.
We're sharing the bed like reasonable adults—her on one side, me on the other, a careful strip of mattress between us that may as well be a minefield. Every breath she takes registers in my awareness, so does every shift of the sheets, and every soft sigh.
I’ve slept in worse conditions. Combat zones. Forward operating bases. The back of a Humvee in 120-degree heat.
But none of those involved a woman who smells like vanilla lying three feet away from me in my bed.
I keep my breathing controlled and steady, the way I learned in sniper training. Slow inhale through the nose. Hold. Exhale. Repeat. If I stay still enough, maybe she'll drift off, and this torture will end.
The mattress dips as she shifts onto her side, facing toward me.
I go completely still.
Bear snores from his spot by the dying fire, oblivious to the fact that his owner is slowly losing his mind.
"Hey."
Her voice cuts through the darkness, and I curse internally.
"You're not asleep,” I say gruffly.
"Neither are you."
"Clearly not."
"Touché."
She rolls onto her back, and the mattress shifts again. Warmth radiates from her body, and the faint scent of my soap on her skin fills the air from when she washed up earlier.
She’s still wearing my sweater, in my bed. My space is invaded by curves and chatter and everything I've been trying to keep out for too long.
"What are you doing? Just… lying there?" she asks in a small voice.
I exhale through my nose. "I’m trying to sleep."
"How's that working out for you?"
Terribly. "Fine."
Silence. Then she props herself up on one elbow, and I feel her eyes on me.
"Well, you look comfortable."
This woman doesn't know when to quit. "Go to sleep, Cookie."
"I can't."
"Why?"
"Because you're over there pretending to be a corpse, and it's distracting."
I turn my head toward her, and in the dim glow from what’s left of the fire, I can see the outline of her face, the fall of her hair across her shoulder. "Distracting?"
"Yes, you're breathing like you're in a meditation class. It's weird."
"How am I supposed to breathe?"
"Like a normal person who's trying to sleep, not someone who's—" She stops herself, and I watch her bite her lip.
The corner of my mouth twitches despite myself. She's flustered. Good. At least I'm not the only one.
"What?"
"Nothing."
But there is something in the way she's looking at me, the way the air has changed. It's the same charge I felt in the kitchen when I licked buttercream from her thumb. The same pull I've been fighting since she showed up on my porch in that ridiculous costume.
She flops back down, and our arms brush.
My pulse kicks up like I’m on fire.
"This is ridiculous," she says, and I hear the frustration in her voice.
"What is?"
"This. Us lying here like there's an electric fence between us."
"There's plenty of room." I gesture at the space between us, even though we both know that's not what she's talking about.
"That's not what I—" She stops and bites her lip again. "Never mind."
We’re both wide awake, hyperaware of every inch between us.
She shifts again, clearly restless. The quilt rustles. Her leg moves, and suddenly her knee brushes against my thigh.
She freezes.
I don't move.
"Red?" Her voice is soft, uncertain.
"Yeah."
"Why did you really let me stay?"
The question catches me off guard. I could give her the easy answer—the storm, the car, basic human decency. But something about the darkness, the intimacy of this moment, pulls honesty out of me.
"I already told you; I didn't have a choice."
"I told you too; you always have a choice."
I turn my head on the pillow to look at her. She's already watching me, and in the faint firelight, her eyes are liquid gold.
"Not with you freezing on my porch, I didn't."
"You could've let me sit in the car. Brought me a blanket and told me to wait it out."
"No, I couldn't."
"Why not?"
Because the thought of her cold and scared made something twist in my chest. Because Bear liked her immediately, and that dog's a better judge of character than I'll ever be. Because when she smiled at me through chattering teeth, something I thought was dead woke up.
"Because," I say instead.
She studies my face, and I watch her process my non-answer. Then, slowly, she shifts closer.
I don't move.
"You don't talk much," she says.
"No."
"But you listen."
"Yeah."
"That's nice." Her voice goes softer. "Most people wait for their turn to talk. You actually hear what I'm saying."
I don't know what to do with that observation, so I just stay quiet.
She shifts again, and now her shoulder is almost touching mine. The warmth from her body seeps into my side. My fingers curl into the sheets to keep from reaching for her.
"Can I ask you something else?" she whispers.
"You're going to anyway."
My voice sounds hoarse. Maybe I need some water.
I hear her smile in the darkness. "Fair point." A pause. "When was the last time someone stayed here? In this cabin, in this bed with you?"
"Never."
"Never?"
"You're the first."
She goes still. "Oh."
The word comes out small, stripped of her usual brightness. That quiet 'oh' tells me she understands what I'm saying—that I've never let anyone this close, that she's different, that this matters.
In the darkness she's different. More herself.
My admission settles between us. Three years in this cabin, and I've never let anyone this close, never shared this space or allowed anyone past the walls I've built.
Until her.
"Red…" She breathes my name, and it does something to me.
I turn toward her, and suddenly we're face-to-face on the pillows, mere inches apart. Every detail is so clear—the way her pupils dilate, the small mole near her temple, the way her lips part.
"This is a bad idea," I say, even as my hand moves to her waist, my palm settling against the curve of her hip through my sweater.
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
"Why?" Her hand comes up, resting tentatively on my chest, right over my heart. I wonder if she can feel how hard it's pounding. "Why is it a bad idea?"
Because you're leaving when the storm clears, and I'm not built for this anymore—for hope or someone like you. Because I'll ruin this the way I ruin everything, and the last person who got close to me died, and I can't—
"Because," I say again.
But my thumb is stroking small circles on her hip, and she's leaning closer, and the space between us is shrinking with every breath.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got."
Her fingers curl into my shirt. "Red?"
"Yeah."
"I think you're scared."
The words hit like a sniper round—accurate, devastating, true.
I level my gaze at her. "Maybe I am."
"Of what?"
Of this. Of you. Of wanting something I can't keep.
Instead of answering, I pull her closer. Not all the way—just enough that there's no space left between us, just desire and the thundering of two hearts that have forgotten how to behave.
Her hand slides up my chest to my shoulder, and I feel her trembling. Or maybe that's me.
"Red…" My name is half plea, half question.
I answer by closing the distance, my forehead resting against hers, my nose brushing hers. God, her breath on my lips, the smell of vanilla and sugar, the softness of her body against mine.
One more inch. That's all it would take.
But I don't move.
Because if I kiss her now, in my bed, in the darkness, with her wearing my sweater and looking at me like I'm not broken—I won't stop. I'll want more. I'll want everything. And when she leaves, she'll take pieces of me I can't afford to lose.
"This isn't a good idea," I repeat, but the words are fucking useless.
"Probably the worst," she agrees, but her hand is on my jaw now, her thumb brushing over my beard.
The storm howls outside, but here in this bed, we hover on the edge of something that will change everything.
My hand tightens on her waist.
Her breath catches.
"Red…"
"I know."
But I don't pull away. And neither does she.
We stay like that—suspended in the moment, in the space between want and fear, in the fragile territory where two broken people find something that might be worth the risk.
My heart pounds so hard I'm certain she can feel it, hammering against my ribs like it's trying to reach her.
Every instinct screams at me to retreat, to rebuild the walls she's somehow slipped through.
Yet I remain frozen, terrified of what will happen if I move—either toward her or away.
The fire spits and hisses, a log shifting with a crack that sounds like a gunshot in the silence.
She startles slightly, her breath catching, but our eyes lock and something passes between us—something neither of us is ready to name but can't deny exists.
But we don't let go.