Chapter 15 Rhiannon
RHIANNON
Iwake up on Christmas to the sound of Carter making coffee downstairs.
I’m disoriented—the loft is dim, my sleeping bag is twisted around me, and there’s a crick in my neck from the thin camping pillow. Then I remember: the cabin. The research. Carter.
Last night.
Oh my god.
My face heats instantly, and I press my palms against my cheeks like I can physically cool them down. We had sex again. I can’t believe we actually did it again. And it was—
I bury my face in my pillow and let out a muffled sound that’s half-laugh, half-scream.
My roommates are going to lose their shit.
I lie there for a minute, listening to him move around below. The clink of mugs, the hiss of the propane stove, the creak of floorboards. There’s something oddly comforting about it, knowing someone else is awake, that I’m not alone in the pre-dawn quiet.
And it’s him. Carter. Who saved my life.
My phone is somewhere in my backpack, dead and useless. I haven’t thought about it in almost a day. Haven’t thought about the texts from my mom, or Matthew, or anyone asking where I am and why I’m not where I’m supposed to be.
I feel lighter without it.
“Rhi?” Carter’s voice floats up from below. “You awake?”
“Unfortunately.” I unzip my sleeping bag and immediately regret it—the loft is freezing. “Is there coffee?”
“There’s coffee.”
“Then I’m awake.”
I climb down the ladder, still in my thermal leggings and Carter’s hoodie that I stole at some point last night.
Carter’s stood at the stove and his hair is sticking up in about fifteen different directions.
He’s wearing grey sweatpants that sit low on his hips and a white t-shirt that’s slightly too tight across his chest and shoulders.
He looks soft and rumpled and heartbreakingly real. And I want to smooth down his hair and pull him back to bed and—
Stop it, Rhiannon
Don’t look. Just focus on the coffee. Be normal. I look.
“Morning,” he says, his voice rough and deeper than usual as he turns around.
I freeze.
There’s a cupcake on a chipped plate. Red frosting, slightly squashed on one side.
My heart constricts.
“Merry Christmas,” Carter says softly, and there’s something nervous in his voice.
I can’t speak. I’m just staring at the cupcake.
“I asked at the motel the morning we left if they had anything,” he explains, words coming faster.
“And they actually did. It’s not homemade or anything—definitely from a gas station, and the frosting’s all messed up—but I thought, maybe.
..” He trails off, watching my face. “Is this okay? I know it’s not the same as your mom’s, but—”
“It’s perfect,” I manage, my voice breaking. “Carter, it’s perfect.”
Relief floods his face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I move closer to the table, unable to look away from the cupcake. It’s ridiculous—a cheap, squashed gas station cupcake on a chipped plate in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. But it’s everything.
He remembered. He listened when I talked about Christmas mornings and my mom’s off-key singing and red velvet cupcakes. He went out of his way to find this for me.
Carter pulls something from his pocket—a lighter. “I didn’t have a candle, but...” He flicks it on, holding the small flame over the cupcake. The light dances across his face, making his eyes bright. “Make a wish?”
My throat closes up completely.
I close my eyes. I’m seven again, Mom singing off-key, red velvet in the oven, everything simple.
Then I’m back—twenty-two, in a cabin, with a boy who listens.
I don’t know what to wish for.
I have everything I want right here.
I don’t want this to end.
I open my eyes and blow out the flame.
Carter clicks the lighter off, grinning. “What’d you wish for?”
“Can’t tell you. Won’t come true.”
“Superstitious.” He hands me the plate. “Want to eat it for breakfast like a rebel?”
I laugh, wiping at my eyes. “Absolutely.”
We sit at the table, and I break the cupcake in half, offering him a piece.
“No way,” he says. “That’s yours. Christmas morning tradition.”
“New tradition,” I counter. “Sharing it with you.”
His expression softens. “Okay. New tradition.”
We eat the slightly stale, probably-expired gas station cupcake, and it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Not because of what it is, but because of what it means. Because Carter remembered. Because he cared enough to try.
“This is perfect,” I say, and I mean it.
That’s the problem.
Because the last time something felt perfect, it wasn’t.
Matthew used to do things like this. At the start. Small gestures that felt huge. And then those gestures became expectations. And then chains.
Until one day, I didn’t recognize myself anymore.
I’m just staring at the crumbs of this stupid, perfect, gas station cupcake, and my eyes are burning.
His hand finds mine across the table. “You deserve to have your Christmas cupcakes, Rhi.”
And that’s when I know.
I’m falling for Carter Wolfe.
Not the cute butterflies kind. The terrifying, lose-yourself-completely kind.
I should probably tell him.
My throat is too tight. My chest too full.
Instead, I squeeze his hand.
I can’t do this. Not when I’m still figuring out who I am alone. What if it happens again?
The slow dissolve.
“I need some air,” I say, standing abruptly.
Carter looks up, concerned. “You okay?” “Yeah, just—it’s warm in here. I’m going to step outside for a minute.”
“Want company?”
“No!” Too sharp. I soften my voice. “No, I just need a minute. Fresh air. I’ll be right back.” I grab my coat and escape before he can ask more questions.
The cold air slaps my face.
I’m already rearranging myself around him.
I’m already thinking about spring semester in terms of “we” instead of “I.” I’m already imagining a future I have no business imagining with someone I barely know.
Matthew and I dated for three months before I started canceling plans with friends because he wanted me home with him.
Six months before I started choosing my classes based on his schedule instead of my interests. And I told myself it was love.
That’s what love was, right? Compromise. Accommodation. Putting someone else first.
Except it wasn’t compromise. It was erasure. And I might be doing it again. I can feel it. The way I’m already softening my edges. Making myself smaller so he has room to be bigger.
He hasn’t asked me to. That’s what makes it worse. Carter hasn’t asked me to change a single thing.
He likes me exactly as I am—neurotic and particular and opinionated. But I’m changing anyway. Because that’s what I do. That’s what I’ve always done. I become whoever the person I’m with needs me to be. And I lose myself in the process.
I can’t do this. The thought arrives clear and cold.
I need to slow down. I need space. I need to remember that I’m a whole person on my own, not just half of something that feels good but might destroy me.
Even if it hurts him. Even if it hurts me. I have to protect myself.
After coffee and toast—because Carter insists I need actual food, not just sugar—we get ready for the day. Site Five is our last major data collection point, and the weather’s supposed to hold until tonight.
“You sure you’re okay to hike?” Carter asks, eyeing my ankle. It’s wrapped in the compression bandage from the first aid kit, still swollen but manageable. “We can skip it. Interpolate the data.”
“I’m fine,” I say, and I mean it. It hurts, but I’ve worked through worse. “Besides, this is the most important site for the thermal gradient analysis. We need direct readings.”
“Okay, but if it gets bad, we turn back. No arguments.”
“No arguments,” I agree.
He looks skeptical but doesn’t push.
We pack our equipment in comfortable silence, and I’m struck again by how easy this has become.
How we move around each other without awkwardness, anticipating what the other needs.
He reaches for the pH meter at the same moment I reach for the thermometer.
I hand him sample vials before he asks. He adjusts my pack straps without being asked.
We’re a team now. Actually, genuinely a team.
And that terrifies me.
The hike to Site Five is brutal—longer than any of the others, uphill through deep snow, my ankle protesting every step. But Carter stays close, breaking trail ahead of me, looking back every few minutes to make sure I’m okay.
“You good?” he calls back for probably the tenth time.
“Yep.” I’m breathing hard, my legs burning. “Just enjoying the winter wonderland.”
“Liar.”
“Complete liar,” I admit. “This is terrible. Why did we choose this again?”
“Because we’re masochists who hate comfort?”
“That tracks.”
We stop to rest, and I lean against a tree, trying not to show how much my ankle is killing me. Carter hands me water, and I drink gratefully.
“You know,” he says, studying my face, “we really can turn back. The data’s not worth you being in pain.”
“I’m not in that much pain,” I snap.
“Rhi.”
“Okay, I’m in some pain. But we’re almost there.” I can see the steam rising in the distance, marking the hot spring. “Twenty more minutes. I can do twenty more minutes.” My ankle is screaming.
He looks like he wants to argue, but instead, he just nods. “Okay. But I’m carrying your pack.”
“You’re already carrying your own—”
“I’m carrying your pack,” he repeats, already reaching for it. “Non-negotiable.”
I let him take it because arguing would waste energy I don’t have.
When we finally reach Site Five, I’m exhausted and my ankle is screaming. But the thermal readings are perfect—exactly what we need for the gradient analysis.
“These numbers are great,” Carter says, checking the equipment. “Professor Bam is going to be thrilled.”
“Yeah.” I’m writing down readings, not looking at him. “Good data.”
“You okay?”
“Fine. Just tired from the hike.”
“Rhi—”
“Can we just finish the readings? I want to get back before dark.”
He goes quiet. I can feel him watching me, trying to figure out what’s wrong
I don’t give him the chance.
I focus on the equipment, on the numbers, on anything that isn’t the hurt confusion in his eyes.