Kait
. . .
I wake up to the sound of Beth snoring like a chainsaw through the walls and the faint smell of last night’s roast still clinging to my hoodie.
My first coherent thought is: Josh is here.
My second is: Stop it, brain. My third is a full-body replay of the way his arms felt around me during that awkward-but-not-really hug, and I groan so loudly Ainsley pokes her head in from the hallway.
“Morning, sunshine,” she whispers, way too chipper for someone who polished off half a box of wine. “Coffee’s on. And Josh is already up, looking tragically hot in flannel. Just FYI.”
I flip her the bird from under the blanket. She giggles and disappears.
I lie there another thirty seconds, heart doing that annoying fluttery thing it hasn’t done since before I can remember.
Get it together, Jamison. You’re an adult, not a teenager anymore.
You have a thesis. You have standards. You do not have time for California-tanned ex-boyfriends who smell like pine and poor life choices.
By the time I zombie-shuffle into the kitchen, the guys are arguing over who gets the last strip of bacon. Josh is leaning against the counter, coffee in one hand, the other ruffling his bed-head into perfect surfer waves. He spots me and his grin goes lopsided, kicking my nerves into high gear.
“Morning, Wait. Sleep okay?” He asks.
“Like a baby. And now, I am a baby who discovered espresso,” I lie, snagging a mug. Our fingers brush when he passes the creamer, and yep, there’s the stomach flip. I blame the altitude.
Hope claps her hands like a camp counselor. “Ladies! Grocery run in T-minus twenty. We’re out of marshmallows, heavy cream, and dignity. Ainsley’s driving.”
Beth groans from the couch, paintbrush already in hand. “I’m on paint duty. The view outside is perfect for some of my creativity. Someone bring me chocolate or I’ll paint you in the scenes as zombies.”
I grab my coat, boots, and the last shred of self-preservation. Josh catches my eye as I head for the door, standing with a coffee mug in his hand, completely casual, like he’s not detonating tiny bombs in my chest.
The grocery store is a zoo—last-minute Thanksgiving panic, carts clashing like bumper cars. Ainsley’s got a list longer than my Target shopping list, Hope’s color-coding produce, and I’m pushing the cart while trying not to think about the way Josh greeted me this morning.
“Earth to Kait,” Hope says, waving a bag of cranberries in my face. “You’ve been staring at the marshmallow fluff like it holds the secrets of the universe.”
“It’s jet-puffed wisdom,” I mutter. “Also, Josh is here and my brain is glitching.”
Ainsley squeals so loud an elderly woman drops her canned yams. “I knew it! The hug last night? Chef’s kiss. The dishes? Foreplay with soap. You’re fucked. Toasted.”
“I’m gluten-free toast,” I hiss, tossing three bags of marshmallows into the cart like I’m armoring for battle. “We’re ancient history. With footnotes.”
Hope snorts. “History just walked in wearing flannel and tanned forearms of emotional baggage. Proceed with caution.”
We load up on enough carbs to feed a small army and speed back to the cabin, where the guys have apparently turned the living room into a pillow fort battlefield.
Micah’s lobbing socks; Jack’s using a baguette as a sword.
Josh is refereeing, shirt riding up just enough to reveal that happy trail I absolutely do not have time to catalog.
“Children,” Ainsley announces, “we brought sustenance. Also, Kait needs a cold shower.”
I flip her off again. Josh catches it, grins, and I die a little.
Afternoon hits and the sun finally burns through the clouds, turning the snow into glitter. Jack claps his hands. “Hike! Short loop, fresh air, zero cell service. Who’s in?”
Everyone. Even Beth, who packs a tiny watercolor kit “for inspiration.”
We bundle up—layers, beanies, the works—and tromp out behind the cabin. The trail’s a gentle climb through pine trees heavy with snow, the kind of quiet that makes you whisper. Josh falls into step beside me without asking, hands shoved in his pockets.
“Remember sophomore year?” he says, breath fogging. “We tried to hike like this at midnight with flashlights and a stolen bottle of Boone’s Farm.”
I laugh despite myself. “You slipped on ice and face-planted into a snowbank. I had to drag you out by your hoodie like a sled dog.”
“Romantic as hell,” he says, nudging my shoulder. “You kissed the snow out of my hair.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I was checking for concussion.”
“Sure you were.”
The group spreads out—Pete and Ainsley up front holding hands like a damn postcard, Micah geeking out over some moss, Jack and Hope arguing about trail mix ratios. Josh and I lag behind, boots crunching in tandem.
“So,” he says, “thesis on fairy-tale retellings?”
I side-eye him. “Stalker.”
“Jack talks. A lot.” He kicks a pinecone. “You always were the dreamer. Still writing those stories in the margins of your notebooks?”
“Some habits die hard.” I glance at him. “You still chasing adrenaline like its Pokémon?”
He grins. “Got my skydiving instructor certification last semester. Zero regrets.”
“Show-off.”
We reach a lookout—valley spread below us like a blanket, mountains wearing snow caps like crowns. Everyone snaps photos; Beth sketches furiously. Josh leans against a boulder, arms crossed, watching me instead of the view.
“What?” I ask.
“Just thinking you look good in snow,” he says, soft enough the wind almost steals it.
My heart does a traitorous somersault. I blame the thin air.
Back at the cabin, we’re all pink-cheeked and starving.
Turkey’s tomorrow, so tonight is lazy—pizza delivery, because Ainsley declares the oven “needs a mental health day.” We sprawl in the living room, with pizza boxes open like treasure chests, grease staining paper plates, and crumpled napkins everywhere.
I’m wedged on the couch between Hope and a throw pillow when Josh drops down on my other side, two paper plates balanced on his knee. “Made you one,” he says, offering a slice folded New-York-style, extra cheese, light sauce. Exactly how I like it.
I stare. “You remember?”
“Despite time, I remember everything,” he says, and the room tilts a little.
The fire’s crackling, casting gold on everyone’s faces. Someone—Micah, the traitor—suggests truth or dare “for old times’ sake.” With groans, cheers, and one very dramatic eye-roll from Beth.
In the first round, Jack has to text his most recent ex a bee emoji and without a second though, he does it, cackling. Hope admits she once hooked up with her econ TA. Pete dares Ainsley to shotgun a LaCroix—she burps like a frat boy and blames love as she hiccups over the next few minutes.
Then it circles to me.
“Truth or dare, Jamison?” Jack asks, eyes twinkling with evil.
I know better. I really do. “Dare,” I say, because pride.
Jack’s grin is pure chaos. “Kiss Josh. Like you mean it. Thirty seconds. Timer starts when tongues touch.”
The room erupts. Ainsley squeals, covering her mouth with her eyes going wide. Beth whoops. Micah actually blushes and I want to murder Jack with a marshmallow.
Josh turns to me, expression unreadable except for the tiny tick in his jaw. “You don’t have to,” he says quietly.
But the dare hangs in the air like smoke, and everyone’s staring, and my pulse is a drum line. I scoot closer until our knees bump. “Rules are rules, that’s how this game is played.” I mutter.
His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing my lower lip, and then we’re kissing.
Soft at first, testing, like we’re teens again and the world hasn’t taught us how to break.
Then deeper—his tongue slides against mine, tasting like pizza and peppermint gum, and my fingers fist his flannel like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered.
Thirty seconds feels like thirty years. When we pull apart, the room is silent except for the fire popping. Josh’s eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.
“Timer’s up,” Hope whispers, awed.
I clear my throat, shake my head — full of forbidden thoughts. “Next victim.”
The kiss before ended, but the air doesn’t get the memo.
Thirty seconds on a phone timer, and I’m pretty sure my soul did a full lap around the cabin.
Jack’s still holding his phone like it’s the Stanley Cup, Beth is fanning herself with a paper plate, and Micah—sweet, innocent Micah—has gone full tomato.
I can’t look at Josh yet, because if I do, I’ll either combust or start laughing hysterically, and neither is on the menu for this week.
Hope clears her throat. “Well. That was… educational.”
“Ten out of ten, would watch again,” Beth declares, licking pizza grease off her thumb. “Somebody get me popcorn.”
Ainsley’s eyes are saucer-wide, bouncing between us like she’s watching the final rose ceremony on The Bachelor. Pete just grins, slow and smug, like he’s been waiting years for this exact plot twist.
I finally risk a glance at Josh. He’s staring at the fireplace, jaw tight, one hand rubbing the back of his neck—the same tell he had in high school when he was trying not to look smug. Except now his ears are red, and I’m 99% sure that’s not from the flames.
“Next round?” Jack tries, voice cracking with glee.
“Pass,” I say, too fast. My voice comes out squeaky. Great. Real smooth.
Josh stands abruptly, grabbing the s’mores fixings like they’ve personally offended him. “I’m on marshmallow duty. Who wants—”
“Everyone,” Ainsley cuts in, practically shoving him toward the door. “Go. Roast. Be useful.”
He shoots me a look—half apology, half question—and I nod, because words are currently stuck behind the marshmallow currently lodged in my throat.
The group explodes into chatter the second he exits with Beth on his trail.
“Subtle,” Hope hisses at Jack.
“What? It was a dare! Tradition!” Jack defends, hands up. “Also, I’m a romantic.”
“You’re a menace,” I mutter, but I’m smiling. Can’t help it. My lips are still buzzing like I licked a nine-volt battery.