12. Daniel #2
The last of the plates are cleared, and Mara has offered to do the dishes, insisting that she and Tess can help.
I glance at her across the kitchen, her hands wrapped around the soapy plate, hair falling loosely from the bun she wore earlier, and I feel a pull in my chest that's hard to name.
Tess hovers near, chatting softly with Mom, helping Mara, her attention light, laughter spilling easily.
I let myself watch, careful to keep distance, my body aching for just a touch of proximity that I know I can't take tonight.
Gray is talking to Mom and Dad about first aid protocols, hospital quirks, stories from the floor that make Mom laugh and my father raise an eyebrow. His enthusiasm is catching; the way he explains things clearly and with a touch of humor makes the air in the kitchen alive.
Leo has his phone pressed to his ear, pacing a bit, talking to employees about Summit High Adventures—scheduling, safety protocols, the usual—his tone professional even as he jokes here and there.
I watch them, the pack's energy around me, and I feel something I haven't felt in months: contentment.
Simple, easy happiness, the kind that comes from being surrounded by people you trust, in a place you know is home.
I get up, moving over to help Mom arrange the last of the chairs for everyone. Her hands are warm as she adjusts the blankets over the sofa, the edges of the table, and I follow her directions without hesitation, grateful for the order she brings to the chaos of us all in the house at once.
The snow outside has started to come down harder, thicker, a white wall obscuring the driveway, the trees, the road beyond.
Mom suggests it might be safest if we all stay here tonight, that she can set up mattresses and sleeping bags in the living room so we can leave together in the morning.
Everyone agrees immediately, murmurs echoing around the room.
I grab a couple of blankets, helping Mom pull a mattress near the fireplace, adding pillows, smoothing the covers, watching the way her hands move with care.
Tess and Mara are already on the sofa, chatting softly, Mara brushing a stray strand behind her ear, cheeks flushed from the wine.
I hand a blanket to Tess, and she gives me a quick smile before sitting, laughing quietly with Mara as they adjust their spots.
Wine glasses are poured. The room smells faintly of the roast, delicious spices, and now the subtle warmth of red wine. We settle near the fire, the flames crackling, Leo finishing his call and Gray continuing to talk softly about a case he handled last month.
I sit back, letting myself absorb the warmth of home, the laughter, the smell, the flicker of firelight across faces I love, and feel a tension in my chest that's equal parts longing and restraint.
Mara sits beside Tess, close enough that I can see the curve of her shoulder, the soft line of her jaw catching the glow of the fire, the way she tucks her legs beneath her.
It almost feels like when we were kids, having sleepovers, the house alive with warmth, laughter, and familiarity.
We watch TV for a bit, voices low, commentary light, teasing each other.
I catch Leo pretending to fall asleep on the floor with a blanket over his head, and Gray smirks at him, shaking his head.
Tess laughs quietly beside Mara, and I can't help but note the small contrasts—Mara's scent sharp against the vanilla of the wine, her hair brushing against Tess's shoulder, the gentle rise and fall of her chest.
Around midnight, we decide it's time to call it a night.
Blankets are adjusted, pillows fluffed, a last round of whispered goodnights exchanged.
Tess curls up on one side of the sofa, Mara on the other, and I lie down on a mattress across from them.
Leo is already snoring, an even rhythm that makes me both jealous and amused.
Gray is stretched out, arms behind his head, looking almost as content as I feel, though there's a hint of restlessness in him, like he's never fully asleep.
I lie there, muscles relaxed, but senses alert, my mind drawn to Mara.
I want a minute with her. I want to brush her hair behind her ear, press my fingers against hers, lean in, breathe her in, taste her.
I know I can't. Not now. Not with Tess so close, not with Mom and Dad in the next room, not with the fire crackling and Leo snoring between us.
I let myself imagine the contact in my mind, and it's almost unbearable.
Hours pass in the soft dark. I'm aware of the snow thickening outside, the occasional shift of someone's blanket, the gentle snore of Leo, the soft inhalations of Gray.
My mind drifts again, caught on that kiss.
Mara's lips, her pulse quickening under my thumb when I brushed her jaw.
Her scent, honeyed and soft, curling into the heat between us.
The memory coils tight in my chest, making my fingers twitch beneath the blanket, making my jaw ache from the tension.
I should be sleeping. I should let it go. But I can't.
At some point, I stir, half-dreaming, half-conscious.
Movement down the hall catches my attention.
Mara. She's slipping from the sofa, soft footsteps, blanket trailing slightly, hair loose from the bun.
She moves with fluid grace, heading toward the bathroom, a path I can see from my position.
Everyone else seems asleep, the living room bathed in firelight and shadows, the quiet punctuated only by the hum of the heater and the snow outside.
I remain still, my chest tight, eyes following her.
The sight of her in motion—delicate, deliberate—brings back the memory of her lips, the shiver when my hand brushed her pulse, the way she trembled when I whispered against her skin.
Desire coils, hot and insistent, a living thing that makes me want to reach for her, to touch, to taste, to hold.
I lie back down, forcing my body to remain still, but the ache is relentless.
Her hair falls across her shoulder as she enters the bathroom, and I catch the scent again, sharp and intoxicating, making my stomach twist with want. Every instinct in me screams, whispering that I should move, that I should go to her, that I should steal another moment.
I know I can't. Not now. Not when everything else is sleeping around us. Restraint is brutal, almost punishing, but necessary.
All I can do is remember that kiss. The way her lips parted, soft and warm, yielding beneath mine. The way her pulse quickened under my touch, her scent filling the air, mingling with the smell of fire and pine and wine.
I relive it in the quiet dark, letting it consume me, forcing myself to breathe slowly, to relax muscles that ache to reach for her.
My fingers curl around the blanket, my jaw clenched, heart hammering as my body reminds me that I want more, so much more, and that restraint is a thin line I can't cross tonight.
She moves back down the hall eventually, the soft shuffle of her feet returning her to the sofa.
I catch her settling, curling under the blanket beside Tess again.
Her presence, even dormant, fills the space between us with heat, tension, desire.
My body hums with the memory, chest tight, throat dry, pulse racing, wanting, needing.
I lie still, daring not to breathe too loudly, daring not to betray the tension that coils through me.
The snow continues to fall outside, thick and muffled, each flake a slow exhale against the windows.
Inside, the warmth, the fire, the shared wine, and Mara's proximity create a vortex that makes sleep a challenge.
I close my eyes and try to focus on something else—the fire, the conversation from earlier, the comfort of home—but her scent, the curve of her shoulder, the memory of her lips, refuses to be ignored.
I am fully awake and fully undone. All I can do is lie there, silent, restrained, imagining, remembering, and wanting.