Chapter Twenty-Six
Carson
I woke slowly, the way a person does when their body doesn’t yet understand the circumstances have changed.
For a brief second, the world was just warmth, unfamiliar but welcome, and the deep, quiet comfort of being cocooned in a sleeping bag that wasn’t mine alone.
And then I realized what the warmth was.
Who the warmth was…
Sienna.
Her head rested against my chest, her hair soft against my jaw, one hand curled near my collarbone as though she’d fallen asleep touching me and never moved again. Her breathing was slow and even, her body tucked against mine in the smallest, sweetest curve I’d ever felt.
And my arms—
My arms were wrapped around her as if she belonged there.
A thought that hit hard, right in the center of my ribs.
For a man who’d spent years convincing himself he didn’t need tenderness, waking up with her pressed against me like this felt like a punch and a balm rolled into one. Something unguarded loosened in my chest, something I hadn’t let myself feel in longer than I cared to admit.
I exhaled very slowly.
Last night had been—
God.
Too much.
Not enough.
Everything.
Warmth and heat and whispered confessions.
The feel of her breath against my throat.
The soft, broken way she’d said my name before sleep finally claimed her.
I’d stayed awake longer than I should have, memorizing the way she relaxed against me. It had been years, years, since anyone had trusted me with their sleep.
And I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it.
Now, morning light filtered through the thin, silver nylon, brushing her features with softness. She looked peaceful. Happy. A little rumpled. And entirely too beautiful for someone who claimed she hated mornings.
I couldn’t look away.
If I moved, I’d wake her.
If I didn’t move, I’d fall deeper.
So I stayed perfectly still, watching her breathe, letting that raw, startling tenderness settle into me like something dangerous.
Because this, whatever this was, wasn’t simple.
Not when I’d sworn off relationships.
Not when we were pretending to be married.
Not when I wasn’t staying beyond September.
Not when she didn’t stay anywhere long.
But in this moment, with her tucked beneath my chin like some missing piece I didn’t know I’d needed?
In this moment, I didn’t care about any of that.
Her eyes fluttered after another minute, lashes brushing my chest. She shifted slightly, burrowing even closer before she froze, realizing where she was.
Who she was on top of.
Her head tilted up slowly, eyes blinking into mine.
“Morning,” I whispered.
Her cheeks flushed instantly. “Oh God.”
I laughed quietly. “Not quite.”
She groaned and covered her face with her hand. “We have to get up.”
“Do we?”
“Yes,” she muttered into her palm. “Butterfields. Breakfast. Wilderness professionalism.”
“Right,” I murmured, though the idea of not moving was dangerously appealing.
We disentangled awkwardly, arms brushing, legs sliding in ways that sent rushed memories of last night flickering through my mind. She avoided my eyes as she sat up, pushing her hair back and trying to pretend she wasn’t flustered.
I wasn’t pretending anything.
My heart knew exactly why it was beating too fast.
She searched for clothes, pulled them on aerodynamically inside the sleeping bag, unzipped the sleeping bag, and scrambled out as if she needed cold air to think.
“Okay,” she said, kneeling beside her boots. “Breakfast. Coffee. Normal thoughts. No more touching.”
I raised a brow. “We’re doing a debrief?”
“No,” she said immediately. “No debrief. We are absolutely not debriefing. Last night was—”
She stopped herself.
Incredible?
My pulse hitched. I waited.
She wouldn’t look at me. “It was… special. And… um… surprising. And also—”
She waved her hand vaguely.
“One time.” Sienna smiled.
Something cold and sharp cut through my warmth.
I sat up slowly. “One time?”
She quickly braided her hair, busying her hands.
“Right. Obviously. It was just… I mean. Situational. And we’re on a work trip. And winter nights are cold. And we were sharing body heat. And it doesn’t have to be a thing. Exercise warms the body up.”
“…a thing,” I repeated. “Exercise.”
She nodded fast. “Exactly. Not a thing, merely exercise.”
The cold inside me deepened.
I hadn’t expected her to call it a relationship. I hadn’t expected declarations or promises. But dismissing it, minimizing it, whatever she was doing?
That surprised me.
I pulled on my clothes and zipped up my jacket. “For the record, I don’t do one-nighters.”
Her head snapped up.
“I don’t treat people like that,” I said quietly. “And I don’t…” I exhaled, searching for the right phrase. “I don’t share a sleeping bag with someone unless it’s more than just convenience.”
Color touched her cheeks, high and uncertain.
“Oh,” she said softly.
I waited, trying to read her face. Trying to understand whether she was caught off guard, or uncomfortable, or disappointed. I wanted to figure out if she had meant it—if she really thought last night was disposable. Forgettable. Something to shrug off like the weather.
Because it hadn’t been forgettable for me.
Not even close.
She pulled her boots on with more force than necessary. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“How did you mean it?”
She hesitated, sitting back on her heels.
“I just…” She swallowed. “I don’t want to assume anything.”
“Neither do I.”
Silence stretched between us, thick as frost.
She twisted the end of her braid.
“Carson… I don’t do well with… with big feelings. Or expectations. Or—” She gestured helplessly. “Anything that looks like permanence.”
There it was.
The truth under her bravado.
Sienna Harper, lightning in human form, afraid of being held.
“I’m not asking for permanence,” I said quietly. “But I’m also not pretending last night didn’t happen.”
Her breath caught.
“Are you?” I asked, softer still.
She looked at me with eyes wide and vulnerable in a way I hadn’t seen before. Something unsteady flickered in her expression.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
Three simple words.
But they hit harder than any declaration.
I nodded once…not angry, not hurt, just… understanding too much for my own good.
“Then let’s take the morning,” I murmured, reaching for my pack. “Start with coffee. Fire. Warmth. And we’ll see where we are.”
She exhaled unsteadily. “Okay.”
We stepped out of the tent into pale gold morning light. The air was crisp but warming, frost melting in thin droplets along the grass. The Butterfields’ tent was still zipped closed, soft snores drifting from inside.
Good.
We needed a little time alone before cheerful honeymoon commentary exploded into the clearing.
Sienna knelt by the fire ring, stacking kindling with methodical focus. I set up the stove beside her, the metal clinking softly, the kind of quiet that should have been peaceful.
But it wasn’t.
Not today.
The silence between us felt weighted, thick with the echo of what had happened and what hadn’t been said.
Her fingers trembled once, barely visible. I pretended not to notice.
“Do you want oatmeal or the breakfast hash?” she asked, tone too bright.
“Oatmeal’s fine.”
“Okay.”
More silence.
She poured water into the pot. I lit the stove. We worked in parallel lines—close enough to feel each other, far enough to pretend distance existed.
Finally, she said in a low voice, “For what it’s worth… it wasn’t nothing, Carson.”
Relief flickered, but I didn’t let it show too much.
“Good.” I cleared my throat and glanced at the line of trees.
“But that also doesn’t mean I know how to handle it.” She glanced at me.
“I know.”
Her throat bobbed. “You’re not mad?”
“No,” I said honestly. “Just… trying to understand where your head is.”
She looked away. “Messy. That’s where.”
I nodded slowly. “Mine too.”
That got a tiny smile from her. It was the kind that cracked something open inside me.
We sat in quiet until I heard her murmur something, but I couldn’t hear the words.
I glanced at Sienna. “What?”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
I turned to her fully and nodded. “You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” I said, voice steady in a way I didn’t expect. “Because I’m not rushing you. I’m not asking for more than you can give. And whatever we figure out, it’ll be both of us choosing it.”
Her eyes shimmered with something new, but the stove hissed quietly.
We had duties today.
But between us, warmth lingered, tentative, tender, but real.
And it was more real than anything I’d let myself feel in years.
“Carson…” she whispered.
But whatever she was about to say was cut off by a loud, cheerful voice bursting across camp.
“Good morning, guides.”
Emma.
Sienna stiffened. I exhaled.
We weren’t done talking.
Not by a long shot.
But as she got to her feet and forced a smile for the honeymooners, I watched her carefully, wondering about the thing she hadn’t said.
Wondering what she wanted and what I meant to her.
Wondering whether she really believed last night could be just once.
Because I knew something now with complete, unshakeable clarity:
I didn’t do one-nighters.
Not with her.
Not ever.
But I still didn’t know if she was someone who did?