Chapter 3 Ruby
three
Ruby
The storm clears the next morning, leaving behind a world of white silence and bright sun that hurts to look at. I stand at the window, black coffee in hand, watching the way light transforms the trees into something almost beautiful.
"Ready to try the radio?" Mayson asks from behind me.
Right. The radio. The reason I survived the crash, the reason I have to leave. My convoy, meeting at Dawson Ridge in five days now. I should be excited, hopeful, ready to reconnect with my people.
Instead, I feel a strange reluctance that has everything to do with the man standing in this cabin.
"Yeah," I say, setting down my coffee. "Let's do it."
His radio setup is impressive—way better than what we had in the convoy. Multiple frequencies, good antenna array, actual backup power. Mayson knows what he's doing with communications equipment.
I tune to our convoy's frequency and try. "Dawson Ridge convoy, this is Ruby Smith. Does anyone copy?"
Static.
I try again, adjusting the frequency, checking connections. "Convoy, this is Ruby. If anyone's out there, please respond."
Nothing but white noise.
"We need higher ground," Mayson says. "Better line of sight, less interference. I know a place."
We gear up and hike to a ridge about half a mile from the cabin. The view is spectacular—mountains stretching in every direction, vast and empty. Beautiful in a way that would've been awe-inspiring before the world ended, but now just emphasizes how alone we all are.
I try the radio again from the ridge. Nothing.
"They should be in range by now," I say, hearing the worry in my own voice. "Unless..."
"Unless they hit trouble," Mayson finishes.
The implication hangs heavy between us. The storm, the raiders, the zombies—any number of things could have gone wrong. The convoy could be scattered, destroyed, everyone I've traveled with for the past year could be dead or fighting for their lives somewhere I can't reach.
"You can still make it to Dawson Ridge," Mayson says quietly. "Wait for them there. That was your protocol, right?"
"Yeah. Five days from now. Noon at the old church."
"So you wait here until then. I'll give you supplies, maps, help you plan the route. Then you go."
Five days left in this cabin with this man who saved my life, who looks at me like I'm something he can't quite figure out, who makes me feel safer than I've felt since the world ended.
"Deal," I say, because what else can I say? I have people waiting for me. A life beyond this mountain. Responsibilities.
“Good,” he says with a nod. All business. “Let’s get back to the cabin. I have some building projects I could use an extra pair of hands with.”
We spend the rest of the day fixing up the kitchen and building a shelving unit for his haphazardly organized pickles and preserves.
The sun's setting when I finally notice how close we've gotten. I'm holding a board steady while he screws it into place, and his arm brushes mine, all that heat and solid muscle, and suddenly I can't breathe properly.
He notices. Of course he notices. He freezes mid-motion, his eyes meeting mine, and I see my own awareness reflected there.
The attraction that's been building since he carried me inside.
The knowledge that we're alone here, that no one would know, that we're both adults who want somthing we shouldn’t have.
But neither of us moves away. If anything, we've gotten closer, drawn together by something neither of us seems able to resist. His hand comes up, fingertips barely brushing my jaw, and I feel that touch everywhere.
"Mayson, touch me, please."
That's all the permission he needs. His mouth crashes against mine, hot and demanding, and I press into him with a desperation I didn't know I was feeling.
His hands grip my waist, pulling me flush against his body, and I can feel every hard plane of muscle, every inch of him that wants this as badly as I do.
We stumble backward, knocking into the wall, and his mouth moves to my neck, teeth scraping sensitive skin that makes me gasp. My fingers fumble with the buttons of his flannel shirt, needing to touch him, to feel his skin.
"We shouldn't," he mutters against my throat, even as his hands slide under my shirt, calloused palms rough against my ribs.
"Says who?"
"Trying to convince myself."
"Is it working?"
"Not even a little."
His hands find my breasts, thumbs brushing over nipples through my bra, and I arch into the touch with a moan that's embarrassingly needy. He makes a sound low in his throat, something between a groan and a curse, and pulls my shirt over my head.
For a moment, he just looks at me, his eyes dark and heated, and I feel more exposed than I have in years. Not just physically, but emotionally. Like he's seeing parts of me I forgot existed.
"You're beautiful," he says roughly.
"You don't have to say that, I know I’m average."
"I'm not saying it to be nice, Ruby. You're fucking beautiful, and I can't stop thinking about you, and this is going to complicate everything, but I don't care anymore."
He kisses me again, slower this time but no less intense. His hands map my body like he's memorizing it, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me clutch at his shoulders. When his fingers slide into my jeans, finding me wet and ready, I nearly come undone right there.
"Mayson," I breathe.
"I've got you."
His fingers push inside me, and I gasp at the stretch—it's been so long, and my body responds with almost painful intensity. I'm tight, unused to this, and he feels it, pausing.
"You okay?" His voice is rough, strained.
"Don't stop. Please don't stop."
He moves slowly at first, letting me adjust, and I'm melting against him, my body remembering what it's like to be wanted, to be touched, to feel pleasure instead of just survival. His fingers work deeper, stroking, finding that spot that makes me whimper into his mouth.
"Fuck, you're so tight," he groans. "So perfect."
I'm desperate, clinging to him, my hand fumbling with his belt, finding him through the denim—thick and hard and straining. I stroke him clumsily, wanting to give him what he's giving me, but I can barely focus. Every nerve ending is on fire, and I'm coming apart at the seams.
"Mayson, I can't. I'm gonna!"
"Let go," he murmurs against my neck, teeth scraping sensitive skin. His thumb finds my clit, circling with just the right pressure, and I'm gone.
The orgasm hits me like a freight train—years of pent-up need crashing through me all at once.
I cry out his name, and his mouth captures the sound, swallowing my moans as I come undone in his arms. My body clenches around his fingers, wave after wave of pleasure rolling through me until I'm shaking, barely able to stand.
When I finally come back to myself, I'm trembling, boneless, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes from the intensity of it.
His fingers are still inside me, gentler now, stroking me through the aftershocks.
Our foreheads rest together, both of us breathing hard, and I can feel his heart hammering against my chest—or maybe that's mine.
"I haven't... not since before the outbreak," I whisper, needing him to understand why I came apart so completely. "I forgot it could feel like that."
His eyes darken even more, something possessive and tender flickering across his face. "Ruby..."
He looks wrecked—hair sticking every which way from my fingers, jaw tight with restraint, eyes blazing. My hand is still on him, feeling him thick and hard through his jeans, the denim damp where he's leaked through. He's holding himself back, and it's costing him.
"Do you want?" I start, my hand still on him.
"I want." His voice is strained, jaw clenched tight. "God, Ruby, I want."
"Then let me."
Before he can protest, I'm sinking to my knees on the worn wooden floor, working at his belt buckle. His hand catches my shoulder, not stopping me but steadying himself.
"Ruby, you don't have to—"
"I know." I get his jeans open, and he springs free, thick and hard and already leaking. "I want to."
I wrap my hand around the base of him, and he's hot and heavy in my palm, bigger than I expected. The gruff mountain man who barely speaks, who lives alone in the woods, who saved my life—and he's falling apart just from my touch.
I lean forward, dragging my tongue along his length, tasting salt and want. He makes a sound like he's been punched, his hand fisting in my hair.
"Fuck."
I take him into my mouth, as much as I can manage, and his hips jerk. One hand braces against the wall, the other tightens in my hair—not forcing, just holding on like I'm the only thing keeping him upright.
I work him slowly at first, getting used to the weight and stretch of him, then faster as I find my rhythm. His thighs are trembling against my shoulders, all that hard muscle shaking, and I look up at him through my lashes.
He's staring down at me like I'm destroying him. Eyes dark and wild, jaw clenched, chest heaving with ragged breaths. His thumb brushes my cheek, almost reverent, and the tenderness mixed with the raw hunger on his face makes heat coil tight in my belly again.
"Ruby," he groans, voice wrecked. "I'm close, you should—"
I don't pull back. I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, and he comes with a curse and my name. I swallow, working him through it, until he's pulling me up with shaking hands.
We stand there, both breathing hard. He tucks himself back into his jeans with fumbling fingers, and I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
"Okay," I say, trying to sound casual, unaffected. "Good. Now that's out of our system. We can just... move on. Focus on getting me to Dawson Creek."
"Right." He clears his throat, not quite meeting my eyes. "Just tension. Natural response to close quarters."
"Exactly."
"Now we've... addressed it. We can be practical."
"Yes. Let’s be adults about this," I agree.
"Five days, then you're gone. No point complicating things."
"No point at all."
We're both lying, and we both know it, but neither of us is brave enough to say so.
He turns toward the kitchen, putting distance between us, and I escape to the bathroom.
I close the door and lean against it, my knees sore from the hard floor, still tasting him. My hands are shaking.
That didn't get anything out of my system. If anything, I want him more now. Want to know what it would feel like to have all of him, to fall asleep next to him, to wake up and do this all over again.
Five days.
I splash cold water on my face and try to believe our own lies.