Chapter 007 Ariel
The rain starts before dawn, a gentle drumming on the cabin roof that pulls me from sleep with that deep contentment of having nowhere else to be.
Joel's arm tightens around my waist as I stir, his face buried against my neck, breath warm on my skin even in sleep. God, he feels solid, like the mountain itself wrapped around me.
I slip from bed slowly, leaving him to the rest he earned after yesterday's work on the new trail markers. The cabin sits dim in the gray morning light, but warm—Joel banked the fire perfectly before we turned in, the way he always does. The way he handles everything, handles me, without it ever feeling like duty.
I pad to the kitchen barefoot, wearing one of his flannel shirts, the fabric soft-worn against my thighs. Coffee first, then work. Grinding the beans and measuring water turns meditative under the steady rain patter, cocooning the cabin, shrinking the world to this cozy bubble.
My latest prints spread across the dining table—shots from last week's hike to the ridge, where Joel first kissed me two years back. The light was golden-sharp that morning, catching frost on pine needles, steam rising off the creek. Staring at them now, I feel the cold air's bite again, hear snow crunch under boots.
"Those came out well."
Joel's voice pulls a smile before I turn. He's leaning in the kitchen doorway, hair mussed, pajama pants slung low on his hips. Bare chest, that scar tracing his ribs like a reminder of stories shared in nights like this.
"The magazine editor thinks so too." I hold up the one of ice formations along the creek bank. "She wants this series for the winter issue."
He moves behind me, chest warm against my back as he peers over my shoulder. Hands settle on my hips, thumbs stroking lazy circles through the flannel. Ownership, casual and complete.
"This one's my favorite," he says, pointing to the waterfall shot—where we met. "Remember what you said taking it?"
"That I'd never been anywhere more beautiful." I lean into his warmth, tilting my head to catch his eye. "Wrong, though."
"Yeah?"
"More beautiful every time. With you."
His arms tighten, smile pressing my temple. "Sentimental this morning?"
"Must be the rain. Philosophical."
"Must be." Gravel in his voice, sleep-rough and fond. "Coffee ready?"
I pour mugs while he restokes the fire, logs snapping precise, flames spreading glow across log walls. Rain drums steady outside, distant thunder rumbling.
He settles at the table with coffee and the wooden frame he's fixing—grandpa's photography gear, for displaying my mountain shots. His hands work skilled, adjusting joints, testing corners. I love this—his focus, fingers coaxing broken to whole.
"Hand me that small clamp?" Without looking up. I grab it automatic.
Back to sorting prints, I glance up to catch him watching, that intense gaze pooling heat low in me. He doesn't look away when caught, just holds it, possessive.
"See something you like?" I tease, echoing that first morning.
"Always." Immediate, matter-of-fact truth. "Even covered in darkroom chemicals, cursing contact sheets."
"I don't curse at contact sheets."
"You do. Last week, called a good print 'stubborn piece of—'"
"Okay, fine." I laugh, nudging his knee with my bare foot under the table. "Maybe a little."
"A little." His grin softens hard lines, years melting off. "Remember the elk herd shot? Invented curses that day."
Memory hits—three days battling exposures, paper, wrong filter. Found me at midnight in the darkroom, failed prints everywhere, enlarger eyed for the window.
"You brought chocolate. Wine."
"Had to. Before you murdered grandpa's gear."
"Equipment survived. Dignity? Less so."
He reaches across, finger tracing my wrist—light, electric. "Dignity fine. Stubbornness, perfectionism, talking to objects when frustrated—all intact."
"I don't talk to objects."
"This morning? Told the coffee maker to hurry—important work."
Mouth opens, closes. Busted.
Rain picks up, hammering windows, cabin sanctuary-deep. Joel sets the frame aside, stretches—muscles pulling across chest, shoulders, scar stark. My eyes snag there, stories mapping his past.
"Come here," he says sudden, pushing back.
"Working."
"Work waits." Stands, hand out, command soft but iron. "Come."
Curious, I let him pull me up. Leads to the front door, opens to covered porch—rain sheeting off roof. Air hits wet pine, earth, alive.
"Listen." He settles behind on the swing, arms around waist.
I lean into his chest, sound washing: rain on leaves, gutters rushing, creek swollen distant. Peace bone-deep, beyond quiet.
"Remember our first storm?" Soft against my ear.
"Hard to forget." Turn, catch warmth, mischief in his eyes. "Carried me through blizzard, then—"
"Turned my world upside down."
Simple words, full force like day one. Joel doesn't declare grand—he means every syllable, certainty chest-tightening.
"Good upside down? Bad?"
"Best kind." Arms tighten, lips temple-brush. "Makes a man know he was half-alive before."
Silence comfortable, rain shifting landscape—trees dark-mysterious, creek roaring fuller.
"Never loved rain this much," I admit. "Arizona girl—rain rare treat. Here? Rhythm."
"Everything rhythm here. Rain, snow, seasons, wildlife cycles." Hand finds mine, fingers lace. "You're part now."
"Am I?"
"From day one. Mountain claimed you. Like I did."
Possessiveness spirals through me, a familiar heat. Two years, and he claims me as naturally as breathing—me his as the land, and him mine.
"Joel?"
"Mmm?"
"Rain heavier."
"It is." No move inside, content holding as storm builds.
Thunder rolls closer, drops splashing porch edge. Chill bites, I shiver in flannel.
"Now inside," he says, pulling me up.
Cabin hits tropical after damp cool. He shuts door, turns—catches me staring: pants low, hair mist-damp.
"Better?" Steps closer.
"Much." Breathier than planned. He notices.
Eyes darken, predatory focus. "Cold?"
Shake head, can't look from his mouth.
"Then why shivering?"
Knows why. Reads my body like terrain—every response cataloged.
"Maybe you're looking like that," I whisper.
"Like what?" Closer, backing me to wall deliberate.
"Like you want to devour me. Not coffee, photos, frames."
"Smart." Hands hips, thumbs flannel-soft. "What gave it?"
"Watching all morning like I'm yours to eat."
Smile heat-promise. "Maybe I do."
Fire liquid to core. Leans, lips neck below ear—grip shoulders steady.
"Prints—" Weak.
"Later." Mouth hits melt-spot, teeth scrape gentle. "Here now. In my shirt, every fantasy."
"Joel." Plea, not protest.
Hands slide, cup ass, lift easy. Legs wrap waist automatic, aligning hard length through pajamas.
"Rain's not stopping," he murmurs against my throat, his voice low and rough, curling my toes. "Perfect bed day."
"Breakfast?" Arching already, body betraying.
"Looking at breakfast." Carries to bedroom. "Lunch. Dinner."
Rain pounds roof as he kicks door shut—warmth, shadow, promise. Hands at buttons, eyes dark intent-affection-hunger, breath-stealing after years.
"Come here, sweetheart." Rough want. "Show you how much I missed you."
Eight hours sleep? Inseparable for two years? It doesn't matter—Joel's reach, that look, always pulls me back in.