Chapter 17
Seventeen
BAILEY
Adrop hits my nose, startling me awake. I blink, taking in the cabin’s dim morning light.
Sebastian’s already up, because of course he is.
He’s wearing just his sweatpants, moving around the cabin like some Greek statue come to life, all smooth muscle and perfect lines.
The memory of those muscles under my hands last night makes my face burn.
Three times. We did it three times, and each time was...perfect. The way he touched me, like I was precious. The way he listened to my body, found every spot that made me gasp. The way he held me after, not minding my endless sleepy rambling about constellations and snow globes.
I stretch, sore and more relaxed than I’ve felt in...maybe ever. Last night was everything. He was everything. And that’s terrifying. Because I want more. So much more. I want mornings and evenings and all the moments in between. I want his laugh and his eye rolls and his secret kindness.
But I need to be careful. We agreed. One night.
Once. He just had his heart broken. Found his girlfriend cheating.
Came here to propose, for God’s sake. I’m just..
.convenient. A warm body in a cold place.
A distraction from his pain. The “just once” we both agreed to in the dark. I need to remember that.
Another drip of water hits my nose. Sebastian’s looking up at the ceiling, CEO mode activated.
“There’s a hole in the roof,” he says, like he’s discussing quarterly earnings. “If we don’t fix it fast, we’ll lose our shelter.”
I follow his gaze to where the melting snow seeps through. “Please tell me you also took roof repair classes during your wilderness survival training.” My eyes drift down his bare chest, tracing the path my tongue took last night. Focus, Bailey. Eyes up.
“Actually...” He has the audacity to look smug.
“No, you didn’t.” I try to stand, wincing at my stiff muscles, which are sore for reasons that have nothing to do with the crash and everything to do with how thoroughly he explored every inch of me.
He’s there instantly, strong hands steadying me. His touch lingers, thumb brushing over my hip where last night he gripped so hard I might have bruises.
“I didn’t. But we still need to reinforce the roof,” he says, his eyes on my lips. I pretend not to notice, just like I pretend not to notice how his breath catches when I lean against him for support. Just like I pretend last night didn’t change everything.
I try not to stare as Sebastian pulls his sweater back on. Was he always this hot? How did I miss this before?
I didn’t.
“There’s spare lumber in the storage shed,” he says, already heading for the door. I follow him out, definitely not watching the way his shoulders move under his shirt. The cold hits like a slap, but the sun’s bright, making the snow sparkle.
Wait.
The sun’s visible. The clouds that have imprisoned us for days are breaking apart, revealing patches of blue. Rescue weather. Going-home weather. Back-to-real-life weather.
My stomach twists into a complicated knot.
He emerges from the shed carrying wooden beams like they weigh nothing. Show off. But then he climbs the rickety ladder to the roof, and my mouth goes dry. The muscles in his arms flex as he pulls himself up. God, those are the same arms that pinned my wrists above my head last night.
“Be careful!”
He pauses, looking down at me with that half-smile that makes my stomach flip. “Worried about me, Monroe?”
“Worried about me having to haul your broken body through three feet of snow when you fall,” I shoot back, but my voice betrays me with a slight crack.
“Pass me that hammer?” Coming halfway back down the ladder, he reaches out and points to the tools scattered near my feet. I grab it, our fingers brushing as he takes it. The touch shouldn’t affect me this much. It’s just hands. Just skin. Just a preview of everything I’ll lose when rescue comes.
“Thanks.” His voice drops lower, like he knows what I’m thinking.
We fall into a rhythm. He calls for tools or boards. I pass them up. Like we’ve done this a hundred times before. Like we know each other’s movements, thoughts.
It’s too easy. Too natural. Too much like something that could be real if we weren’t who we are, if we didn’t live in completely different universes, if this cabin in the middle of nowhere wasn’t just a bizarre blip in our otherwise separate lives.
“Your leg okay?” he asks for what must be the hundredth time.
“I promise I haven’t spontaneously re-broken it since you asked five minutes ago.”
“I need more wood.” He climbs down the ladder with the same effortless grace he does everything. Like gravity’s more of a suggestion than a law. His boots crunch in the snow as he lands beside me, and before I can step back, he reaches for my leg.
“I can put some weight on it now,” I say, but he’s already got his hands on my calf, fingers pressing gently along the muscle. His touch is clinical, exact—checking the swelling, testing range of motion. But my heart does this weird skippy thing again.
“Flex your foot,” he instructs, and I comply.
“Look at you, all wilderness first aid certified.” I force a laugh that sounds fake even to me. “Did they give you a special badge for this? Maybe a little patch with a band-aid on it? ‘Sebastian Lockhart, Certified Wolf Fighter and Ankle Inspector Extraordinaire’?”
His hands pause on my ankle, and his eyes meet mine with a dangerous glint. “Are you mocking my survival training?”
“Me? Mock you? Never. I’m just impressed by your extensive Boy Scout resumé. Do you also know how to start fires with twigs? Build a shelter from leaves? Tame wild bears with your CEO powers?”
I’m rambling. I know I’m rambling. But if I stop talking, I might say something real. Something dangerous. Something that would break our “just once” agreement. Something that would make his hands freeze on my leg and his eyes go distant like they do when he thinks about her.
His hands drop from my leg as he looks up at the sky. The clouds break apart even more, revealing larger patches of blue. My stomach twists.
“The storm’s almost past us,” he says, squinting at the horizon. The sun catches his face, making him look like something from a magazine cover. A world I don’t belong in.
“The rescue team will probably come soon,” he says.
Right. Rescue. Real life. Where he’s a billionaire and I’m...me.
My mind races in seventeen different directions at once. Did he mean anything he whispered last night? Does he realize this ends when we leave this cabin? Does he know I’m already planning exit strategies to make this less painful?
I force myself to take a step back when he reaches for me, ignoring how my body screams at the loss of contact. His hand hangs in the air between us for a moment, fingers curled around nothing.
“Bailey? Is everything okay?” His voice is gentle, concerned.
“Sure. Fine. Just thinking about what we need to do before rescue comes.” I wrap my arms around myself, creating a barrier between us. Protection from what? From him? From me? From the words I might say if I let myself speak honestly?
I could ask him. Right now. Ask if we could try to make something real beyond this cabin. He’d say yes—because he’s Sebastian, because he’s good, because he’d want to make me happy. He’d convince himself it could work, even when we both know it couldn’t. He’d try because that’s who he is.
And that’s why I can’t ask. Because he deserves better than someone else’s expectations weighing him down when he’s barely free of the last ones.
Because whatever we’d cobble together would crumble once reality hit, and the fall would hurt so much more after trying to believe. Because asking means admitting how much I want, and wanting makes the inevitable loss unbearable.
“You don’t seem fine.” His hand drops, and I watch confusion flash across his face.
It’s better this way. Better to step back now, before we’re rescued, before real life crashes in. Before I become another regret in his perfect life. Better to nurse a small heartbreak now than a devastating one later.
The space between us feels massive now. Arctic. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, then closes it again. His jaw tightens the way it does when he’s processing, analyzing, trying to make sense of something that doesn’t fit his orderly world.
I focus on breathing. On not reaching for him.
On not explaining. Because if I talk, I won’t stop, and then I’ll tell him everything—how last night meant something, how he means something, how I want impossible things.
How “just once” wasn’t nearly enough. And that would be worse than this confusion. So much worse.
The sound of hammering fills the silence as Sebastian works on the roof. I pass up another board when he signals. The work is methodical. Easy. As long as we don’t talk, as long as we just focus on the task, I can pretend my heart isn’t trying to crack open.
The rhythm of work almost lulls me into feeling normal again. Almost. Until the hammering stops.
I hear him climbing down before I see him, boots scraping against the ladder rungs. My body tenses, knowing what’s coming. He lands in the snow with that same graceful precision that makes everything look effortless.
“Bailey.” My name in his mouth is a weapon, soft and devastating. “Talk to me.”
I fidget with a loose thread on my sleeve, avoiding his eyes. “About what? The weather? The roof? The fascinating way snow melts at different rates depending on sun exposure?”
“About what’s wrong.”
The thread snaps in my fingers. “Nothing is wrong. The roof’s fixed. Crisis averted. Go, Team Wilderness.”
He steps closer, hand reaching for my face. I flinch back before he can touch me, before I can lean into his palm like I want to.
“Right.” The word falls between us like ice. “Nothing is wrong.”
My throat feels tight as I force the words out. “This will end when we get rescued. Soon.”
His eyes narrow, jaw clenching in that way that means he’s trying to stay controlled. “Is that what you’re doing? Planning for the end before we’ve begun?”
I busy myself with gathering scattered tools, ignoring how my hands shake. “Isn’t that what this is? A beginning with a built-in expiration date?” My voice cracks. “You said it yourself, no relationships.”
“What if I don’t think so anymore?”
The hammer slips from my grip, landing with a dull thud in the snow. “Then you’re hallucinating. Last night was...what it was. Amazing. Perfect. But part of this place, not the real world.”
He reaches for me again, mouth opening with what I’m sure is another reasoned argument. But I’m already moving, ducking under his arm. My leg protests as I dart around him, but adrenaline’s a hell of a painkiller.
“Bailey, wait.”
My fingers fumble with the handle, cold and clumsy. Behind me, he’s getting closer.
“You’re impossible,” he snaps, voice tight with frustration.
I spin around, ignoring how my leg trembles. “No, I’m realistic. You’ll go back to your world, and I’ll go back to mine. That’s how stories like this end. We both know it.”
“You don’t know how it ends,” he says, his voice going soft in that way that makes my chest ache.
The same voice he used last night when he whispered my name against my skin.
The same voice that could make me believe in fairy tales and happy endings and worlds where people like us make sense together.
I know what I’ll see if I look at him. That expression he gets when he’s trying to solve a problem, like if he just finds the right words, the perfect argument, everything will work out.
“I know how it can’t end,” I say, and my voice only shakes a little. I push through the door before he can respond.
I step inside, letting the door close behind me.
Because if I look at him, I might believe him.
Might believe that someone who plans everything could want someone who never plans anything.
That someone who lives in straight lines could love someone who lives in chaos.
That this isn’t just a beautiful accident caused by snow and wolves and loneliness.
The roof is fixed, but something between us is leaking now. Truth and feelings and all the things we’re not saying. He watches me with those eyes that see too much, and I pretend to be fascinated by anything else.
“Bailey.”
“Don’t. Please.” Don’t make me dream. Don’t make me think last night could be more than we agreed on.
Don’t make me think this could be more than a beautiful disaster waiting to happen.
The roof might be sealed, but my heart? That’s leaking everywhere, and I don’t have enough boards or nails to fix it.