Barrow
T he fire crackles beside us as we sit on the blanket, the night air crisp and cool against the warmth between us.
It’s strange, this feeling. This pull. I never thought I’d be here, with Star.
But here I am, and it feels like I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life.
We’ve been talking, laughing, with her sharing little stories from the Snowpack, and every word she says makes my chest tighten in the best way.
There’s something special about her. I’ve been around women before, but none of them have ever made me feel like this. Not like her.
I glance at her, watching her sip from the thermos, the firelight dancing in her eyes. I can feel the way she’s holding back, like she’s still trying to figure me out, figure out if she can trust me.
And I get it. I didn’t expect her to throw herself into this, not with how guarded she’s been.
But she’s here. And that’s something.
That’s quite a lot, actually.
I don’t take it for granted.
Our talk lulls into an expanse of quiet marked only by the flow of the river and the whisper of the wind through the trees’ dying leaves.
I lean back, stretching out my legs, feeling the coldness of the earth through the blanket. She leans with me, nuzzling into my body.
The warmth from the fire and the cocoa are fighting the chill, but there’s something else now. Something different in the air — or perhaps inside me.
I shift closer to her, just a little, so that our knees brush. I can’t help it — she’s so close, her presence pulling me in like gravity.
Star glances at me, her eyes a little uncertain, but there’s a spark in them. She’s thinking about something, maybe about me, maybe about this.
She licks her lips, a soft movement that sends a jolt of heat straight through me. I can feel the tension growing between us, and I know she feels it too.
Slowly, I reach out, resting my hand on hers. My thumb brushes over her knuckles, feeling the soft tremble in her fingers. Her skin is warm, and she doesn’t pull away.
Instead, she looks up at me, her gaze soft and searching, and for a moment, I can see the vulnerability in her eyes.
The kind of vulnerability that makes me want to protect her.
Keep her safe.
“You’re not scared of me?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intend.
Her lips quirk up in a soft smile, but there’s still doubt there. “Should I be?” she asks.
The question hits me harder than I expect. My chest tightens, and I look at her. No, I don’t want to scare her. I never want her to feel scared with me. Not like that.
“Not at all,” I say. My words are sure, but my voice cracks just a little. I swallow the lump in my throat. “I’m not going anywhere, Star.”
Her smile softens, her eyes flickering between mine, and I feel that familiar pull again—the need to close the space between us. I’m not sure what she’s thinking, what she wants, but I can feel the hesitation in her, and I don’t want to rush her. I grit my teeth and stand my ground.
But when she shifts closer, the space between us practically disappears, and I can feel the heat of her body. My heart thunders, and before I even realize it, I’m leaning in. Slowly. Tentatively.
Star’s eyes flicker to my lips, and for the briefest moment, I wonder if she’ll pull away.
But she doesn’t.
Instead, she meets me halfway, her lips brushing against mine.
The kiss is light at first, but electric. We’re both testing the waters, seeing if this is what we both want. And then, it deepens.
Her mouth softens under mine, and I feel her hand curl into my shirt. I pull her closer, the heat of her body exactly what I need against mine.
Every part of me is awake now, every nerve tingling with awareness, muscles hardening. The kiss is slow, almost tender, but there’s an intensity behind it that I can’t deny.
When we break apart, her breath is shallow, her lips swollen from the kiss. I can’t help but reach out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger on her soft skin.
“I want you,” she breathes. “All of you.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
She looks up at me, her eyes wide, her cheeks flushed, but there’s something else in them now—something that tells me she’s not just here because of the fire or the cocoa or the quiet night.
She’s here because she wants this — because she wants me .
The thought turns me hard, ready, in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.
“I’m sure,” she breathes, her voice trembling with the same desire that I feel building inside me.
Without another word, I lay back, pulling her with me. I can feel her pulse racing beneath my fingertips as I run them over her clothing. My touch strays to the buttons on her jacket, her eyes never leaving mine as I slide them open.
The world seems to fade around us—just her and me, the firelight casting shadows on the snow, the night wrapping us in its cool embrace.
Our bodies instinctively find each other, our peaks and hollows fitting together like we were meant for each other.
There’s no rush, no need for words. It’s just the two of us, our heavy breathing and deepening touch, everything else forgotten.
I kiss her again, this time more urgent, and she responds with a moan. My hands slides beneath her jacket and top to find her skin, warm and soft, and I can’t stop myself from pulling her closer, needing to feel her against my hardness.
Her hands are at the button of my jeans now, as desperate and grappling as mine as I open her pants too. The cold air kisses my hardness for a moment before she closes the space between us once more, all liquid heat and fleeting breath.
The chill of the night doesn’t matter anymore, not when I’m lost in her touch. We move together, the fire crackling beside us, the world outside of this moment fading into nothing.
And when the moment comes—when the stars are above us and the fire is dying down, leaving only the warmth of our bodies—it feels like everything falls into place.