Thin Walls #3
He pulls me closer, just a fraction, his other hand finding my waist, his fingers digging firm and possessive into the wool of the sweater.
I can smell him—coffee, cedar, and the clean, cold wind.
The desire is a physical weight now, a heavy, throbbing need that fills the space between us.
I want him to kiss me. I want the hard press of his mouth to chase away the quiet, to chase away the ghost of Jesse, to pull me out of the past and into the raw, sizzling present.
“Wyatt,” I breathe, my lips parting, our breath mingling in the small space.
He looks at my mouth, his gaze dark with a hunger that matches my own.
His chest is pressed nearly against my ribs, hard and fast. His fingers on my neck slide upward, burying themselves in the hair at the nape of my neck, tilting my head back slightly.
We’re millimeters apart. If either of us breathes too deeply, our lips will touch.
But then, from the hall, Atlas lets out a soft, low whine.
The sound is a quiet reminder, a cold splash of reality.
Wyatt’s fingers tighten in my hair for one desperate, bruising second, his grip possessive and hard, before he slowly, reluctantly lets his hands drop. He steps back, turning his stool toward the counter, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle leaps in his cheek.
“I have to check the sheepdog.” His voice is raw, scraping the quiet room.
“I’ll come.” My voice trembles, the words a clumsy attempt to rebuild my counselor’s wall.
“No. Stay here. Eat.”
He stands and walks out of the kitchen, his boots heavy on the linoleum.
I sit on the stool, my skin tingling where he touched me, my pulse still racing. The bread is dry in my throat, but I force myself to eat. The wall between us is still there, but it’s cracking, the structural integrity failing under the weight of the desire we’re both trying to ignore.
The afternoon passes in a slow, agonizing crawl.
The sun moves across the white peaks, casting long, blue shadows across the snow.
Wyatt stays in the clinic runs, working with Jason, who arrived at noon to help clear the barn path. I stay in the office, sorting through the veterinary records, trying to keep my hands busy so I don’t think about the heat of Wyatt’s skin or the memory of his bare hand wrapped around my neck.
But every sound carries. Through the thin walls, the low rumble of his voice carries as he talks to Jason. The metal latch of the medicine cabinet clicks. The floorboards creak as he walks down the corridor.
He’s everywhere.
By six, the sun has dropped behind the mountains, and the deep, violet dark of the mountain night reclaims the valley. The temperature drops fast, the cold clawing at the windowpanes.
Wyatt comes in, his face lined with exhaustion, his shoulders bowed. He doesn’t look at me as he goes to the woodstove, throwing in three logs before going to the office.
“Goodnight, Bella.” His voice carries down the hall, rough, tired, and heavy with a strain he can't hide.
“Goodnight, Wyatt.”
It becomes the pattern. Three more days of shovels and slow thaw, of bread and cheese eaten standing up, of his gaze finding me across the runs and cutting away before it can burn us both.
Three more nights of Goodnight, Bella from the end of the hall, rough and tired, answered through three inches of pine.
Every time we pass in the narrow hallway, our shoulders brush, and the brief friction feels like an ignition point.
When I hand him a clipboard, his fingers linger against mine for a heartbeat too long. We don't speak of it, but the air between us has grown pressurized, thick, and suffocating with a desire that has stripped away all my neat defenses.
On the fourth night, I go to Jesse’s room, pulling the door closed until the latch clicks.
Atlas lies asleep by the bed. I climb under the quilt, pulling it to my chin, but sleep is impossible. My skin feels too tight, my blood too hot.
The generator skip is a constant, rhythmic hitch in the dark.
Through the thin pine planks, Wyatt’s movements reach me.
The creak of his bed down the hall as he lies down. The rustle of his wool blanket. The deep, heavy, frustrated sigh he lets out into the dark.
I turn onto my side, my eyes wide in the blackness. His breathing carries through the wood—slow, steady, and deep. It’s the only sound in the world, and it draws me like a magnet, pulling at something deep in my chest.
The need is a physical ache now, a sharp, burning desire that makes the quilt feel too heavy, the room too small.
I want the heat of him. A desperate, clawing need to be held fills me.
I want to stop being the strong one, the counselor who talks strangers off the ledge, and let someone else hold the weight.
I want to let him hold me.
I lie there for an hour, my heart hammering against my ribs, my fingers fisting in the quilt.
Hiding so you don’t have to feel the wind.
His words echo in the dark.
I can’t stay here. I can’t stay behind this wall.
I pull the quilt back. My bare feet hit the cold floor. I walk to the door, my steps silent on the cedar planks. I turn the handle, the brass cold in my palm, and pull the door open.
The clinic corridor is silent, cast in the dim, amber glow of the emergency lights.
I step out, crossing the hall toward Wyatt’s door.