Chapter 5
Emory
Pike moves around the small living space with a controlled, deliberate calm that draws my attention no matter how hard I try not to stare.
He said he'd sleep on the couch, and he meant it. He brings out an extra pillow and a heavy wool blanket, shaking them out with the same stubborn certainty he brings to every decision.
"You don't have to do that," I say again, even though we've had this argument twice already.
"You're not sleeping out here," he replies, his tone steady. "I've slept on this couch more times than I can count. I'll be fine."
He will be.
I won't.
Because the idea of Pike stretched out on this couch—tall, broad, and broody—is enough to make me feel uncomfortably warm.
"You're sure you're comfortable?" I ask.
"Yes." His answer is immediate. Then he says, "Go. Get some rest."
I linger for another moment. He notices, of course. Pike notices everything.
His eyes hold mine, steady and unreadable. "You’re safe. Go to bed.”
I smile before I can stop myself. "You say that like you've had to reassure people before."
"I haven't," he says. "You're the first person who's ever stayed here."
Something inside me flutters. Maybe it's surprise. Maybe it's something more dangerous.
"All right. Goodnight," I whisper, making my way toward the bedroom.
"Goodnight, Emory."
When I close the bedroom door, my heart is still beating too fast.
I don't know how long I lie awake, listening to the faint creak of the couch as Pike shifts his weight. The cabin is impossibly quiet otherwise. No cars outside. No passing footsteps. Just the crackle of cooling embers and the steady rhythm of the storm outside, wind sighing through the pines.
Eventually, I give up on sleep and slip back out, hoping for a glass of water.
Pike is sitting up on the couch, elbow propped on the armrest, his eyes half-closed but very much awake. His hair is disheveled, and in the dim firelight, he looks both vulnerable and impossibly solid.
"You're still up?" I ask softly.
His gaze lifts to mine. "Couldn't sleep."
"Is it the storm?"
"No." His pause is brief, but heavy enough to feel. "It's you."
My breath catches.
He shifts slightly to face me. The firelight paints warm edges around his silhouette. His bare forearms catch the glow, and I can't help staring at the strength in them—the proof of a life lived by his hands, shaping fire into something delicate.
"Was I being too loud? I didn't mean to keep you awake," I say.
"It's not your fault."
But his voice has roughened, deepened, and I'm not sure he believes that.
I step closer to the fire, the floor creaking beneath my feet. Pike watches me as though I'm a spark too close to dry timber.
"Are you warm enough?" he asks.
"Yes."
"Are you comfortable?"
I nod.
"Good." His tone quiets, almost gentles. "You looked tired earlier."
"I was," I admit. "But now I can't stop thinking."
"About what?"
"You."
The word is out before I can stop it. His expression shifts, subtle but unmistakable, a slight tightening in his jaw, a slow inhalation, a heat that flickers in his eyes.
"Emory," he says quietly.
I don't know what he means to follow it with, because I take another step toward him. Then another. Until I'm standing beside the couch, close enough that I feel the warmth radiating from his body.
He rises slowly, like he's afraid any wrong movement might break the moment. For a second we stand there, inches apart, snow whispering against the windows while the tension builds between us.
"You should be asleep," he murmurs.
"So should you."
"I know."
His hand lifts as if he's going to touch my face, but he stops when he's only a breath away, fingertips hovering near my cheek.
"If I touch you," he says, "I won't want to stop."
"Maybe I won't want you to stop."
He closes his eyes for a moment, steadying himself, then opens them again. Whatever restraint he's been clinging to is fraying.
When he finally reaches for me, his fingers brush my cheek with a carefulness that feels more intimate than a kiss. His touch is warm, solid, reverent.
I lean into it before I can think better of it.
My hands find his chest, feeling the slow, controlled breath beneath my palms. He's trying so hard to stay steady, but I can feel the tension coiling through him like a wire pulled tight.
His head lowers. Mine tilts up. Our lips hover close enough that his breath warms my mouth. The air between us vibrates with anticipation. My pulse thunders.
We're a moment from kissing.
A gust of wind slams into the cabin, shaking the windows hard enough to startle us both. Pike steps back instantly, jaw tight, as the moment shatters like glass.
"Emory," he says again, but this time his voice sounds strained. "This isn't a good idea."
"Why not?"
"Because I want you too much."
"I don't see how that's a problem," I whisper.
His hands curl at his sides, like he's trying not to reach for me again. "I don't know how to be… half-way with someone. If I start something with you, I won't be able to pull back."
The confession sends a rush of heat through me.
"I'm not asking you to pull back."
His breath leaves him in a slow, quiet exhale. He looks at me for several long seconds, as if he's deciding whether he's strong enough to keep resisting or too far gone to try.
"We should sleep before I do something I can't take back," he finally says.
I nod, because my heart is pounding too hard to trust my voice.
He steps away toward the couch. I take a slow step backward toward the bedroom. The distance between us grows, but the air still feels charged.
I reach the door before turning to look at him one more time.
Goodnight hangs in my throat, but I don't say it.
He doesn't either.
We don't need the word.
The tension says enough on its own.
I slip back into the bedroom and close the door, knowing sleep won't come easily.
And knowing he's still out there on the other side, trying just as hard not to think about the moment we almost couldn't stop.