Chapter 4 – Corey
I wake to the sound of her breathing.
Not the sharp intake of someone startled awake, but the soft, steady rhythm of deep sleep, quiet enough that I might have missed it if I weren't lying so close, close enough to feel the gentle rise and fall of her ribs against my side.
Miranda is curled into me, one arm draped across my chest, her face pressed against my shoulder.
Her hair spills across my pillow in waves that catch the pale morning light filtering through the curtains, and when I shift slightly to look at her, she makes a small sound in her sleep and burrows deeper against me.
This is dangerous territory. Lying here watching her sleep, cataloging the way her eyelashes rest against her cheeks, the small freckle just below her left ear, the soft curve of her mouth that I can still taste on my lips.
Dangerous because it feels too much like contentment, like belonging, like all those things I learned not to want.
But I can't seem to make myself move.
The digital clock on the bedside table reads 6:45, which means I've been lying here for at least twenty minutes, just watching her breathe.
Twenty minutes of trying to reconcile what happened between us last night with what I know about myself, about the distance I maintain, about the rules I've built to keep situations exactly like this from happening.
I don't do this. Don't wake up next to women I barely know, don't feel this pull toward someone who's checking out in a few hours, don't lie here memorizing the texture of someone's skin like I might need to recall it later.
But apparently, I do all of those things when it comes to Miranda.
She shifts in her sleep, leg sliding between mine, and the casual intimacy of it hits me hard. This is what I've been avoiding for years.
I need to get control of this, need to put some distance between what happened last night and what happens this morning. Need to protect both of us from the inevitable disappointment when she realizes this was just a moment, just Christmas magic that doesn't survive daylight.
I should go.
But even as I think it, my arm tightens around her, and I know I'm not going anywhere. Not yet.
She stirs again, this time with the purposeful movement of someone surfacing from sleep. Her fingers flex against my chest, and I feel the moment she becomes aware of where she is, who she's with. Her breathing changes, becomes more conscious, and then she's lifting her head to look at me.
"Hi," she says softly, voice rough with sleep.
"Morning." I keep my voice neutral, friendly but not intimate, like we're acquaintances who happened to end up in the same bed instead of two people who spent the night learning each other's bodies.
There's a moment where we just look at each other, and I can see her cataloging the same details I've been memorizing—the way my hair is sticking up, the shadow of beard I didn't shave yesterday, the fact that we're both naked and tangled together.
"Did you sleep okay?" she asks, and there's something careful in her voice now, like she's testing the temperature of the water.
"Yeah. You?" I sit up, putting some physical distance between us, and immediately miss the warmth of her skin against mine.
"Good. Really good." She sits up as well, pulling the sheet with her to cover her breasts, and the modest gesture feels like a response to my withdrawal. "What time is it?"
I check the clock again, grateful for something neutral to focus on. "Almost seven."
"I should probably get ready. Check out's at eleven."
The reminder hits like cold water. Check out. Right. Because this was always temporary, always had an expiration date built into it.
And I'm an idiot for forgetting that, even for a moment.
"Right," I say, standing and reaching for my clothes. "I should get going anyway. Let you get packed."
"You don't have to rush off." But she says it like she expects me to anyway, like she's already preparing for me to leave.
And maybe I should. Maybe the smart thing would be to get dressed, say goodbye, and let this stay in the category of beautiful mistake instead of pushing it into territory that could hurt us both.
"I don't want to overstay my welcome," I say, pulling on my uniform shirt and focusing on the buttons instead of the hurt that flickers across her face.
She's quiet for a moment, and when I look up, she's watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
"Of course," she says finally. "I should shower anyway. Get ready."
"Right."
She slides out of bed, taking the sheet with her, and disappears into the bathroom. I hear the water start, and I'm left standing there fully dressed in rumpled bedding, trying to figure out how I managed to make everything feel wrong so quickly.
But this is better. Safer. Clean exits are less messy than prolonged goodbyes, and we both know this was never going to be anything more than one night.
I'm tying my boots when she emerges from the bathroom, hair damp and wearing jeans and a soft blue sweater. She looks beautiful and distant, like she's already mentally checked out and moved on to whatever comes next.
"All set," she says brightly, but there's something hollow in her voice.
We stand there for a moment in uncomfortable silence, and I realize we've somehow managed to make last night feel like something to be embarrassed about instead of something to be celebrated.
"Going for breakfast?" I ask, because I need to say something, need to break the tension that's settled between us like fog.
"No. I was going to grab something on the road."
"There's breakfast downstairs."
She hesitates.
"I don't want to keep you," she says finally. "I'm sure you have places to be."
The gentle politeness in her voice makes my chest ache. "You're not keeping me from anything."
That's not entirely true. I'm supposed to be at the station by eight for shift change, but suddenly that feels less important than making sure she doesn't drive away thinking last night meant nothing to me.
Because it did mean something. It meant everything. And that's exactly the problem.
"Okay," she says softly. "Breakfast sounds nice."
We walk to the door together, and when I reach for the handle, our hands brush. The contact sends electricity up my arm, and I see her react to it too with a sharp intake of breath, a flicker of heat in her eyes that reminds me exactly why I need to be careful.
"Miranda," I start, then stop, because I don't know how to say what I'm feeling without revealing too much.
"What?"
Instead of trying to find words, I lean down and kiss her.
It's meant to be soft, a gentle goodbye, but the moment our lips touch, something ignites.
She makes a small sound in the back of her throat and rises on her toes to meet me, and suddenly we're pressed against the door, kissing like we're trying to memorize each other.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard, and the distance I've been trying to maintain crumbles completely.
"That's not—" she starts, then stops, shaking her head.
"What?"
"That's not making this easier."
She's right. It's not. But I can't seem to stop myself from reaching for her, from wanting more time, more conversations, more mornings like this.
"Just breakfast," I say, forcing my voice to stay level. "Then we'll figure out the rest."
She nods, but I can see the fear creeping back into her expression, the way she's already protecting herself from whatever she thinks is coming.
We leave the room together, walking down the hallway in charged silence. I want to reach for her hand, want to pull her close, want to find a way to bridge this gap that keeps opening between us.
But every instinct I have is screaming at me to maintain some composure, to not let her see how much this matters to me.
The inn is quiet this early, most guests still sleeping off Christmas Eve celebrations.
Our footsteps are soft on the vintage carpet, and I find myself hyperaware of every small sound like the way her breathing has settled into a steady rhythm, the soft rustle of her jeans as she walks, and the space she maintains between us like an invisible barrier.
At the top of the main staircase, she pauses, one hand on the bannister, looking down at the lobby where we sat together just hours ago.
We reach the bottom of the stairs, and I can hear the quiet clatter of breakfast preparation coming from the dining area.
The dining room is warm and welcoming, with morning light streaming through tall windows and the smell of coffee and bacon in the air. The waitress appears almost immediately, beaming at us with the knowing smile of someone who's been running a romantic inn for thirty years.
"Well, good morning, you two," she says, and I feel heat creep up my neck at the implication in her voice. "Corey, I wasn't expecting to see you this morning."
"Morning." I keep my voice professional, like I'm here on official business instead of trying to spend a few more minutes with the woman who's turned my world upside down. "Hope you don't mind me joining Miranda for breakfast."
"Of course not! Any friend of our guests is welcome." She turns to Miranda with a conspirative wink. "I trust you slept well, dear?"
Miranda's cheeks go pink, but she smiles. "Very well, thank you."
"Wonderful. Now, what can I get you both? Coffee to start?"
We settle at a small table by the window, and she brings us steaming mugs and fresh cream.
Even as we go through the motions of polite breakfast conversation, I can feel the weight of everything unsaid.
The way her fingers wrap around her coffee mug like she needs something to hold onto.
The way she keeps glancing at me when she thinks I'm not looking.
The way I keep checking my watch, not because I'm eager to leave but because I'm terrified of how much I want to stay.
"So," she says eventually, stirring cream into her coffee with deliberate focus. "Do you always work Christmas Eve?"
"Usually." I take a sip of coffee, grateful for something to do with my hands. "Someone has to be on duty, and I don't have family to rush home to."
"No family at all?"
"Parents are in Florida. Sister's in Seattle. We do the obligatory holiday phone calls, but we're not particularly close." I check my watch again, a nervous habit that I can't seem to shake. "What about you? Any Christmas plans besides the cabin?"
She shakes her head. "Just me and some good books. Maybe a long hike if the weather holds."
"Sounds peaceful."
"That's the idea."
The conversation feels stilted, like we're both trying to avoid the obvious questions hanging between us. What happens next? What was this? Are we going to pretend it never happened?
I want to ask all of those things and more, but every time I open my mouth, some instinct for self-preservation kicks in and I find myself talking about the weather or asking if she needs more coffee.
"This is good," she says, cutting her pancakes into precise and tiny squares. "The pancakes, I mean."
"They’ve been perfecting that recipe for years," I say, then immediately check my watch again. "Speaking of which, I should probably—"
"Of course." Miranda's voice is neutral, but I catch the flash of hurt in her eyes before she looks away. "You have to get to work."
"Yeah. Shift change is at eight, and Captain gets cranky when people are late."
It's not entirely a lie, but it's not entirely true either. He would understand if I was a few minutes late, especially given the circumstances. But sitting here, watching Miranda methodically eat her breakfast while maintaining small talk, feels like torture.
Because I want more. Want to know what she's thinking, want to ask if she felt the same connection I did, want to suggest that maybe she doesn't have to go to that cabin alone.
But every time I consider saying any of that out loud, I remember Sophie's note, remember the empty house and the engagement ring left on the kitchen counter, remember what happens when you let yourself believe in fairy tales.
Another glance at my watch. Another moment of wanting to say something real and choosing safety instead.
"I should probably let you finish in peace," I say finally, standing and pulling my wallet from my back pocket. "Let me get this."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." I leave enough cash on the table to cover both meals plus a generous tip, then stand there awkwardly, not sure how to end this. A handshake seems too formal, a hug too intimate, a kiss too dangerous.
In the end, I settle for touching her shoulder briefly, a gesture that could be friendly or something more, depending on how you interpret it.
"Have a safe trip to the cabin," I say, and immediately hate how formal I sound.
"Thank you." She looks up at me with an expression I can't quite read. "And thank you for... everything. Last night was really..." She trails off, seems to reconsider whatever she was going to say. "It was really nice meeting you."
Nice.
Like we shared coffee and pleasant conversation instead of the kind of intimacy that leaves you feeling turned inside out.
"Yeah," I say, because apparently I'm as bad at this as she is. "Really nice meeting you too."