12. Daniel
Daniel
Snow has started to blanket the world outside, the soft flakes drifting down lazily, coating the lodge roof and the parking lot in white. Gray and Leo are sprawled on either side of me, cards in hand, laughter spilling from them as they argue over a hand I know I can't win.
The warmth of the room, the scent of pine from the small bundle of firewood I brought up earlier, and the hum of snow against the windows make it cozy, almost too comfortable. My phone buzzes on the bedside table, a sharp sound that snaps me from my card game haze.
I glance at the screen and pick up. "Hey, Mom."
"Daniel! Have you had dinner yet?" Her voice is warm, carrying that slight edge of authority she always has, the one that reminds me I'm still her son no matter how old I get.
"Not yet. We've been playing cards and, well, time got away from us." I glance at Gray and Leo, who are smirking knowingly, clearly enjoying watching me fumble under maternal scrutiny.
"I'm making dinner here at home. Can you and the boys come by?"
I hesitate just a fraction, then smile. "Yeah, we'll be there in a minute."
The guys lean forward, curious. "Wait, you haven't been to your family home since you came back?" Gray asks.
"Not really," I admit. "We're always at the café or the lodge. Hardly any time at home since I moved out. And Tess—well, she's been busy too. We just… never stop."
Leo whistles softly. "Let's go."
We get ready, the three of us moving quickly. Jackets, boots, gloves, scarves, all piled in the back of the SUV, the engine roaring to life. The drive is short, the road winding through snow-covered trees, the world outside muted by falling flakes and fogged-up windows.
Familiarity presses in the moment I turn onto the street.
My chest tightens in a way I don't expect.
Even with the lodge and café being our usual haunts, this—this home—carries its own weight.
The smell of cedar and firewood, the memory of family dinners, the scent of my parents' cooking—it's grounding, safe, almost comforting in a way I didn't realize I missed.
We walk up to the house, Leo joking about how this place is a palace.
I open the door, and it hits me immediately: the warmth, the smell of roasting meat and something sweet baking in the oven, the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth.
Tess and Mara are already there, moving around, Tess carrying a small tray, Mara fussing with cups on the counter.
"Daniel! Boys!" Mom calls, stepping forward from the kitchen. Dad follows, smiling broadly. "You made it!"
I grin, feeling that tug of familiarity, of belonging. "Yes, Mom. It smells incredible."
"I wanted to spend some time with everyone before things get any busier," she explains. "Just a quiet evening."
I glance at the fire, which my father is fussing with, carefully stoking the logs. Leo murmurs beside me, "Man, I'd be so upset living in a hotel when this place exists."
I catch the twitch of Mom's lips—she's a little wounded at the remark. I clear my throat, stepping forward. "You had every right to use the rooms, Mom. Tess and I moved out years ago. No one's keeping anyone from here." My words are gentle but firm, protective.
Dinner is a flurry of motion. Mom directs Tess and me to set the table, to open bottles of wine, to help bring food from the kitchen.
Mara is handing out plates, her movements subtle, efficient, and almost hypnotic in the way she tilts her head, the curve of her neck catching the candlelight.
She doesn't look at me too long, not yet, but I can feel the magnetic pull between us—the scent, the warmth, the heat that seems to radiate off her in waves.
The snow keeps falling outside, coating the windows in frost, muffling the world beyond the house. I find myself seated next to Mara at the table.
"Hey," I murmur, letting the warmth of my voice brush against her. Her cheeks color instantly, pink blooming across her skin like the softest sunrise.
Leo winks at me from across the table. The gesture is silent, loaded with meaning. He knows exactly what I'm thinking, exactly what I'm feeling. He's been the one nudging me, reminding me that sometimes desire isn't something you can—or should—ignore.
I turn back to Mara, trying to focus on the conversation around the table. Mom is chatting about holiday plans, Dad's explaining some detail about the snowplow routes, Tess is laughing at one of our father's exaggerated gestures.
Mara smiles, a small, almost shy smile, and my body reacts before my mind can catch up. Her scent is intoxicating as it winds itself around me, wrapping me in tension I can't shake.
I want to reach for her hand, trace her jaw with my fingers, lean close and inhale the honey of her scent, feel the heat of her against me.
I fight it, but every little glance she gives, every tilt of her head, makes it harder to remain restrained.
She laughs softly at something Tess says, tilts her cup toward me as though unconsciously sharing the space between us, and I can feel the pull tighten, coil around my chest like a wire.
Leo leans back in his chair, sipping his wine, eyes flicking to me. Gray smirks, clearly entertained by my inner turmoil. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to settle into the conversation, to speak, to answer questions without letting my gaze linger too long.
But the pull doesn't lessen; it grows. Every time Mara shifts in her chair, every brush of her sleeve against the table, every faint flicker of movement, my body responds. My chest aches, my fingers twitch, and I have to consciously relax my shoulders to avoid leaning into her.
Mom passes me a plate, smiling warmly. "Careful, Daniel. Hot."
I nod, murmuring thanks, keeping my eyes firmly on my plate as I attempt to gather control. Mara's hand hovers over the wine bottle, and I imagine taking it instead, imagine our fingers brushing, her pulse quickening under the light touch. The thought is enough to make my jaw tighten.
Dinner progresses, and I can feel the conversation flowing around me, but my mind is tethered to her.
Tess is chatting and laughing, completely unaware of the tension building beside her.
Mara's hands move to her cup again, fingers delicately brushing the rim.
The warmth radiates through her fingertips, and I imagine holding her hand, letting her feel the heat pressing from me.
I force myself to chew slowly, drink water, engage in conversation, but my eyes can't help themselves.
They drift toward Mara, catching the smallest gestures, memorizing the soft curve of her lips, the gentle rise of her shoulder.
The scent of her, subtle and delicious, twists through me.
Every time she breathes, I can feel the magnetic pull drawing me in, making restraint almost unbearable.
Leo leans over, whispering low. "You're going to combust if you don't do something." Gray chuckles, leaning back in his chair. I growl softly, annoyed and frustrated with them both, though I can't suppress a small smile.
They know. They always know.
I glance back at Mara as she smiles at Tess again.
Her hair falls across her cheek, and I want nothing more than to brush it back myself, to press my lips along her jaw, to feel her shiver beneath my touch.
My pulse hammers. Every instinct in my body screams at me to close the distance, to taste, to claim, but I force my hands into my lap, fingers tightening, jaw clenched. Not here. Not now.
The snow outside keeps falling, muffling the world.
The warmth of the house, the scent of cooking, the fire in the hearth, all collide with the heat of her presence.
I can feel it in every nerve ending, in the hollow ache behind my ribs, in the rapid thrum of my pulse.
I want her, in ways I can't fully name, in ways that make the air feel charged around her.
As dessert is served, the golden light of the candles flickering across her skin, I catch myself imagining what it would feel like to reach for her hand, to press my lips to hers, to feel her warmth against me. My restraint is taut, stretched to the limit, but I hold it. I have to.
She's Mara. She's Tess's best friend. I can admire her, want her, ache for her, but I can't cross this line.
Still, sitting here, close enough to feel her heat, to smell the traces of her scent, to see the soft movements that make my chest tighten, I realize with brutal clarity that this pull, this need, won't fade. I'm tethered to her in a way that is intoxicating, maddening, and undeniable.
And when the night ends, when dinner is over, when the last of the dishes are cleared, I know that this tension—the ache, the want, the magnetism—will still be alive between us, humming just beneath the surface, waiting for the moment it can erupt.
This isn't something I can ignore. This isn't something I can simply let pass.
I steal one last look as the fire crackles, as the snow coats the windows, as Mara sips her wine, fingers delicate around the glass.
Her eyes rise toward mine for the briefest instant, and my chest tightens further.
Desire, curiosity, restraint, longing—they all twist together in a coil that hums through me.
The night is still young, and though I sit quietly, polite, contained, I know that this tension, this need, will follow me beyond this table, beyond this room, beyond this house. It's alive, it's magnetic, and it's entirely hers.