39. Daltyn
DALTYN
The second we step inside the cabin, silence settles around us.
Not awkward silence. Heavy silence.
The kind packed full of things neither of us knows how to say out loud yet.
I lock the door behind us while Peyton kicks off her shoes carefully near the entryway. My eyes drop to her ankle. Still no swelling. Good. The sight loosens something ugly in my chest.
She catches me looking. “It’s fine,” she says softly.
I nod once, but I crouch anyway, my fingers brushing lightly over her ankle before I can stop myself. Soft, delicate, and warm skin beneath my calloused fingers.
Mine.
The thought hits hard enough to make my jaw tighten.
I know it’s dangerous. This is only temporary.
But I can’t stop.
Peyton’s breath catches quietly above me.
I glance up.
Color floods her cheeks.
Fuck.
I straighten slowly, forcing myself to step back before I do something reckless like carry her upstairs and spend the rest of the night buried inside her.
My dick hardens again, agreeing with that idea. I was as hard as a rock the entire time I knelt between her legs. And I still ache for her.
“You hungry?” I ask roughly.
“A little.”
Good. Food. Something normal. Domestic. And safe.
Definitely safer than staring at her mouth while remembering the sounds she made in that bathroom.
I head toward the kitchen before I completely lose my mind.
Behind me, I hear her soft laugh. “You walk like you’re mad at the floor.”
“Maybe I am.” I flash her a teasing smile over my shoulder.
“That seems unhealthy.”
She’s smiling. Relaxed. Happy.
And somehow that affects me more than anything that happened in the bathroom.
I turn away before she notices, and pull ingredients from the fridge while Peyton hops onto one of the stools at the island.
“What are you making?”
“Pasta.”
Her brows rise. “It’s awesome that you cook.”
I shrug. “I’d starve otherwise.” My eyes meet hers. “I’m not like Connor. He can’t cook worth a damn. He once burned ramen noodles.”
A laugh escapes her, the sound filling the room.
“Poor Allie. I hope she can cook.”
I nod. “I think he’s gotten better. She’s shown him a few things. Before her, his mom and sisters did it all, so he never learned.”
I start a pan on the stove while she watches me quietly.
“Makes sense.”
The cabin feels different tonight. Softer somehow. Warmer. Like the walls themselves are settling around us.
“You’re staring again,” I mutter.
Her face flushes. “Sorry.”
I shouldn’t ask, but I do anyway. “What are you thinking about?”
Her fingers curl around the sleeve of the sweater she’s still wearing. The one with a wet spot where we tried to dab the coffee.
Fuck.
That sweater on her should be illegal. It brings back too many memories of the bathroom.
“You,” she admits softly.
Every muscle in my body tightens. “Dangerous answer, Pey.”
“I know.”
I grip the counter harder.
She says things like that so quietly. So honestly. Like she doesn’t realize they hit me like a damn body check straight to the chest.
I focus on cooking before I completely lose control again, boiling the pasta. Making sauce and heating up the garlic bread I bought. Simple, mindless tasks.
Except nothing about this feels simple anymore.
Peyton slides off the stool suddenly.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re cooking. I’m helping.”
“You don’t have to. ”
“I want to.”
That word lands somewhere deep. Want.
She wants to.
She moves beside me, reaching for plates while I try very hard not to think about the fact that she’s barefoot in my kitchen, wearing clothing I bought her. Ones that cling to her soft curves.
Damn it. This is how people get emotionally attached.
I carefully pass her the garlic bread tray. “Careful. It’s hot.”
“I know.”
Our fingers brush as she takes the tray. The same spark shoots through me.
Jesus Christ.
Peyton sucks in a tiny breath.
So she felt it too.
The realization is possessive and ugly and deeply satisfying.
We move around each other awkwardly at first.
Then easier. More natural. Until it’s like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
At one point, she bumps into me when reaching for the refrigerator door. My hand automatically lands on her waist to steady her.
Neither of us moves.
My thumb brushes lightly against her hip. Her breathing changes, coming shorter and faster.
Fuck.
I know exactly how she sounds turned on now. That information should not make me feel this powerful.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
She nods too fast.
It’s cute .
I lean down slightly. “You’re blushing again.”
“Whose fault do you think that is?”
A grin pulls at my mouth before I can stop it.
“There it is,” she says triumphantly.
I raise a brow.
“You smiled.”
“I smile.”
“Rarely.”
“That’s a lie.”
She gives me a look.
I shrug. “Fair assessment.”
We eat dinner at the island while soft music plays quietly from the speaker near the fireplace.
For the first time in what feels like forever, my head feels… quiet.
No spiraling from the media’s intrusive questions.
No cameras watching our every move.
Just Peyton laughing when I tell her about Connor nearly skating face-first into the boards during practice.
Just her sitting across from me, stealing garlic bread off my plate, looking warm, flushed, and real.
This isn’t supposed to feel this normal.
That’s the problem.
After dinner, Peyton curls up beside me on the couch beneath a blanket while some terrible reality baking show plays on the television.
I barely pay attention to it.
Mostly because Peyton falls asleep against my chest halfway through the episode. Her breathing evens out softly. One of her hands rests against my stomach, trusting and comfortable.
My arm tightens around her automatically .
The fire crackles quietly nearby while leaves blow in the breeze outside.
And for the first time in years, I don’t feel restless. Or angry. Or alone.
The realization hits hard enough to make my chest ache.
This was never supposed to become real.
Peyton staying here is temporary. The fake relationship is temporary.
But with her curled against me like she belongs here?
It suddenly feels terrifyingly permanent.
And the worst part?
I don’t think I want it to end anymore.