Chapter 4
Chapter four
Megan
Morning light filters through the blinds in soft gold stripes, painting the cedar walls of Aaron’s bedroom.
I wake slowly, body heavy with the kind of exhaustion that follows too much adrenaline and not enough sleep.
The sheets are cool against my skin, the pillow smells faintly of cedar and Aaron, something warmer and darker that makes my stomach flip even before my eyes are fully open.
I’m in his bed.
The realization hits like a second cup of coffee. I sit up fast, heart kicking. The room is simple and sparse, like the rest of the cabin—a king bed with dark sheets, a nightstand with a lamp, and nothing else. No photos. No clutter.
I glance toward the open doorway. The living room is quiet. The couch, where he insisted he’d sleep, is empty, blanket folded with military precision. He’s gone.
I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress, bare feet hitting cool hardwood.
I’m still in yesterday’s jeans and sweater, wrinkled and smelling faintly of cedar smoke and fear.
My curls are a disaster. I finger-comb them, splash water on my face in the small bathroom, then pad toward the front door.
I find him outside. He’s shirtless and sweaty. The sight stops me dead in the doorway.
Aaron is on the covered porch, back to me, gripping the pull-up bar he’s bolted between two posts.
His body is a map of strength and scars.
His broad shoulders rolling with every controlled lift, muscles shifting under sun-bronzed skin, the long line of his spine flexing as he pulls himself up, chin over the bar, then lowers slowly, deliberately.
Sweat gleams on his back, tracing the ridges of old wounds: a jagged line across his left shoulder blade, a puckered circle low on his ribs, faint white slashes that look like they came from something sharp and angry.
His biceps bunch, forearms corded, scarred hands gripping the bar tightly.
He’s gorgeous.
Not the polished, gym-bro kind of gorgeous. The real kind. The kind that comes from years of hard use, survival, and pain turned into power. Every scar tells a story I want to know. Every muscle says he’s fought for every inch of space he occupies.
I can’t look away.
My mouth goes dry. Heat pools low in my belly, sudden and sharp. I should go back inside. I should pretend I didn’t see this, but my feet won’t move.
He finishes a rep, drops to the porch boards with silent grace, and turns.
Our eyes meet.
He freezes mid-motion.
I feel the blush crawl up my neck, hot and unstoppable.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me watch him, sweat still trickling down the center of his chest, dark hair damp at the temples, blue eyes darkening as the seconds stretch.
I swallow and force out. “Morning.”
“Morning.” His voice is low and rough. He grabs a towel from the railing, wipes his face, then his neck, slow, deliberate. The movement makes every muscle in his torso shift. I can’t stop staring.
“You’re up early,” I manage.
“Habit.” He tosses the towel over his shoulder. “You sleep okay?”
I nod. “Your bed’s comfortable.”
His gaze flicks to the bedroom door, then back to me. Something dark and hungry flashes in his eyes before he locks it down. “Good.”
Silence stretches again. Thick. Electric.
I shift my weight, suddenly aware of how close he is, how little he’s wearing, how much skin is on display. My mouth is dry. “You always work out at dawn?”
“When I can’t sleep.” He steps closer slowly. “And last night… I couldn’t sleep.”
The admission hangs between us.
I lift my chin. “Because of me?”
“Because of you,” he says, voice dropping lower. “You’re loud even when you’re quiet.”
I laugh—soft, surprised. “I snore?”
“You breathe.” He’s close enough now that I can smell sweat, clean male skin, that faint leather-and-gun-oil scent that’s starting to feel like home. “Every breath. Every shift. Every time you sighed in your sleep. I heard it all from the couch.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” His eyes drop to my mouth for half a second, then lift again.
The air between us heats as I step forward. I tilt my head. “You’re the one who put me in your bed alone.”
His jaw flexes. “You were exhausted. Couch wasn’t an option.”
“Chivalrous.”
“Practical.”
I smile slowly, teasing. “Is that what you’re calling it?”
He exhales through his nose, almost a laugh. “You’re trouble.”
“You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”
He looks at me long and searching. “It’s the worst thing.” But he doesn’t move away, nor do I.
The tension is unbearable. Delicious. I can feel it in every inch of skin, in the way my nipples tighten under my sweater, in the low ache building between my legs.
He breaks first. Stepping back. He grabs his shirt from the railing and pulls it on. The movement is quick, almost angry. “You need to eat. Then we train.”
“Train?”
“Self-defense.” He nods toward the open yard. “Just in case.”
I raise a brow. “You think I can’t handle myself?”
“I think you’re brave. Brave gets people killed without training.” He heads toward the kitchen door. “Shower. Change. Meet me in the yard in twenty.”
I watch him disappear inside.
Then I exhale. I’m shaky and furious at myself for being turned on.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in the yard, wearing borrowed sweats that smell like him and a tank top I found in his dresser. He’s waiting, shirtless again, sweatpants low on his hips, muscles gleaming in the morning sun.
He looks at me. Eyes darken.
“Ready?” he asks.
I lift my chin. “Bring it.”
He steps behind me to adjust my stance, his hands on my hips, thumbs pressing into the hollows above my waistband. “Feet wider. Knees soft.”
His chest brushes my back. Breath hot on my neck.
“Like this?” I ask, voice breathy.
“Better.” His hands linger. Slide up my sides, correcting my posture. Every touch is slow. Deliberate. Lingering too long.
I turn my head slightly. Our faces are inches apart.
“You’re very hands-on. I’m not sure that’s professional bodyguard behavior,” I tease.
His grip tightens. “You’re making it very hard to stay professional.”
I smile. “Good.”
He growls—low, rough—and steps back.
But the damage is done.