Chapter 6
Chapter six
Katy
Morning light spills through the cabin windows in soft, pale ribbons.
The snow outside stopped falling sometime in the night, leaving everything hushed and glittering.
I wake slowly, wrapped in Nathan’s arms, my back to his chest, his breath warm and steady against the nape of my neck.
One of his hands rests low on my stomach, fingers splayed wide like he’s still holding me even in sleep.
His heartbeat thumps gently against my spine.
Everything feels right.
Too right.
It shouldn’t feel this right after one night.
One dinner. One long, slow unraveling in front of the fire that left us both trembling and laughing and whispering things we probably weren’t supposed to say yet.
My body still carries the memory of him—every careful touch, every reverent kiss, the way he looked at me like I was something holy when he finally slid inside me.
I can still feel the stretch, the fullness, the way my name sounded in his throat when he came.
I shift slightly, testing the soreness between my thighs. It’s a good ache. A reminder that last night was real.
Nathan stirs behind me. His arm tightens, pulling me closer. A low, sleepy rumble vibrates through his chest.
“Morning,” he murmurs, lips brushing my shoulder.
“Morning.” I smile even though he can’t see it. “You’re warm.”
“You’re naked.” His voice is gravelly with sleep. His hand slides up my ribcage, thumb grazing the underside of my breast. “And soft.”
Heat blooms low in my belly. I arch just enough to press my hips back against him. He’s already half-hard. I feel him thicken against the curve of my ass.
“Careful,” he warns, but there’s no real heat in it. Only hunger.
I roll over in his arms so we’re face-to-face. His eyes are still heavy-lidded, hair mussed, beard a little wilder in the morning light. He looks like every fantasy I’ve ever had.
I cup his face. “I like waking up here.”
His gaze softens. “I like waking up to you.”
He kisses me then—slow, lazy, morning-soft.
It deepens gradually until I’m sighing into his mouth, fingers threading through his hair.
Every time he kisses me, the world narrows to his lips, his tongue, the steady press of his body against mine.
Everything else, the doubts, the speed of it all, the quiet voice in my head that whispers this is too fast, fades.
Because when he kisses me, I don’t care if it’s too fast. This feels meant to be.
We break apart only when Bear whines at the bedroom door, tail thumping against the wood.
Nathan groans, drops his forehead to mine. “He’s going to scratch the paint off if we don’t let him in.”
I laugh softly. “Let him in. He’s such a sweetheart.”
He rolls away, reluctantly, and opens the door. Bear bounds onto the bed like he’s been waiting years for permission. He noses my face, tail wagging so hard the whole mattress shakes.
“Hi, handsome,” I coo, scratching behind his ears. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?”
Nathan watches us from the doorway, arms crossed, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “He really likes you.”
“I like him.” I look up at Nathan. “I like you more.”
His smile widens, just a fraction, but it’s real. “Good to know.”
He disappears into the hallway. I hear water running, cabinets opening. A few minutes later, he returns with two mugs of coffee and a plate of buttered, warmed leftover bread from last night.
“Breakfast in bed,” he says, handing me a mug. “Don’t get used to it.”
I take a sip, it’s perfect, just the right amount of cream, and grin. “Too late. Already used to it.”
We eat in comfortable quiet, Bear curled at our feet. The snow outside is bright and untouched. Inside, everything feels settled. Peaceful.
But my mind won’t stop turning.
This is happening too fast.
We met three days ago. Three. Days. And last night I let him inside me, body and heart, and it didn’t feel reckless. It felt inevitable.
I set my mug on the nightstand. “Nathan?”
He looks over. “Yeah?”
“Is this…” I hesitate, searching for the right words. “Is this moving too fast for you?”
He studies me for a long moment. Then he sets his own coffee aside and turns fully toward me.
“Honestly?” he says. “Yeah. It is.”
My stomach drops.
“But,” he continues, reaching for my hand, lacing our fingers together, “I don’t care.”
I blink. “You don’t?”
“No.” He squeezes my hand. “I spent three years telling myself I wanted to be alone. That anything that felt this good would burn out just as quickly. That if I let someone in, they’d see the quiet parts of me, the long winters, the days I don’t talk much, the way I sometimes need space, and they’d leave.
So I kept everyone out. Built walls. Told myself it was safer. ”
His thumb brushes over my knuckles.
“Then I walked into that bar. Looked at me like I was worth the trouble.”
He lifts my hand to his lips and presses a soft kiss to my knuckles.
“I’m scared,” he admits quietly. “I’m scared this is too fast. I’m scared I’ll mess it up.
I’m scared you’ll wake up one day and realize the quiet isn’t romantic—it’s just quiet.
But every time I think about slowing down, about putting distance between us, it feels wrong.
Like I’d be punishing myself for something I didn’t do yet. ”
He looks at me, really looks. Eyes steady. Vulnerable.
“So no,” he says. “I don’t think it’s too fast. I think it’s exactly the speed it’s supposed to be. Because when I’m with you, everything feels right. I don’t want to fight that.”
Tears prick my eyes. Happy ones. Relieved ones.
“I feel the same,” I whisper. “Every time my brain says ‘slow down,’ my heart says ‘don’t you dare.’ Because this feels like it was always supposed to happen. Like the universe spent years rearranging pieces just so we’d end up here.”
He leans in and kisses me softly. Once. Twice. Then deeper.
When we part, he rests his forehead against mine.
“Then let’s keep going,” he murmurs. “No brakes. No second-guessing. Just us.”
I nod, throat tight. “Just us.”
We spend the morning in bed.
Kissing. Touching. Talking in low voices about nothing and everything.
He tells me about the first winter he spent alone up here, how the silence almost broke him until he learned to listen to it instead of fight it. I tell him about the day I left Denver, how I cried the whole drive because I was terrified I’d never feel at home anywhere again.
We make love again, slow this time. Gentle. Face-to-face, eyes locked, hands clasped. When I come, it’s quiet, shuddering, his name on my lips like a promise. He follows right after, burying his face in my neck, whispering how much he loves this. Loves me.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, listening to the wind move through the pines.
I trace the line of his collarbone. “I’m not scared anymore.”
He presses a kiss to my temple. “Me neither.”
The rest of the day passes in a soft blur.
We shower together, laughing when the water turns cold halfway through.
We make lunch, grilled cheese and tomato soup, then eat on the couch with Bear sprawled across both our laps.
We walk outside in the fresh snow, hand in hand, watching Bear chase snowballs like they’re prey.
We come back inside flushed and cold, strip each other slowly, and tumble back into bed.
Every time he kisses me, the last whisper of doubt dissolves.
Because this isn’t too fast. This is right on time. This is meant to be. And I’m never letting it go.