Chapter 6
CALLUM
Ican't sleep.
Piper’s in the bath, and I’m trying to give her space. I've been sitting on the couch, staring at the dying fire, replaying the moment she hit the ground. The sickening thud. The way her body went limp. The pure terror that shot through me when she didn't immediately get up.
I need to move, occupy myself.
The kitchen. I can make her something. She needs to eat, keep her strength up. And I know exactly what.
Cinnamon toast.
It's stupid, probably. Childish. But it's what my mom used to make me when I was sick as a kid. Thick slices of bread, butter melted into every corner, cinnamon and sugar mixed just right so it caramelizes under the broiler.
I pull out the bread. It’s locally made, picked it up at the market earlier this week. The butter sizzles as it melts into the bread. The smell of cinnamon fills the cabin. For a moment, I'm eight years old again, sitting at the kitchen table while Mom fusses over me.
I hear movement behind me and turn to see Piper emerging from the bathroom, wrapped in one of my flannels, her hair damp and curling. She looks better. Color back in her cheeks. Eyes clearer.
She looks at me, then at the stove, and something soft crosses her face.
“What are you making?”
“Cinnamon toast.” I turn back to flip the bread. “My mom's recipe. Used to make it whenever I didn't feel good.”
“That's sweet.”
I shrug, playing it off. “It's just toast.”
“It's not just toast.”
She settles at the kitchen table, and I feel her eyes on me as I work. It feels... right. Natural. Like this is something we've done a thousand times before.
I'm plating the toast when I hear the scratch of pencil on paper.
I turn, and there she is. The sketchbook open in front of her. Pencil moving across the page in quick, confident strokes. Her bottom lip caught between her teeth in concentration.
She's drawing.
I want to move closer, to see, but I don't want to break whatever spell has taken hold of her. So I just stand there, toast forgotten, watching her work.
The pencil flies across the page. She's completely absorbed, lost in it. This is what she looks like when she's doing what she loves. This is who she's supposed to be.
Not some marketing robot in a job that's “fine.”
This. Creating. Alive.
Finally, she sets down the pencil and sits back, studying her work. Her eyes find mine across the kitchen.
“Done?” I ask.
“For now.”
I cross to her, setting the plate of toast on the table. “Can I see?”
She hesitates, then turns the sketchbook around.
And I stop breathing.
It's me. From behind, shirtless, standing at the stove. She caught the curve of my spine, the tension in my shoulders, the way the light from the stove catches on my skin.
“Holy shit,” I say. “This is…”
“It's just a quick sketch.”
“It's incredible.” I look up at her, shaking my head. “And you clearly don't have a concussion if you can draw like that.”
She laughs, and the sound wraps around my heart and squeezes.
“Eat,” I say, pushing the plate toward her.
She takes a bite, and I watch her eyes close in pleasure. “Oh my God.”
“Good?”
“It's perfect.” She takes another bite, then looks at me. “Thank you. For this. For the bath. For taking care of me.”
“Piper…”
“I mean it.” She sets down the toast. “I ran out into a blizzard like an idiot. You could have left me out there. But you didn't.”
“Of course I didn't.”
“Why?”
The question hangs between us. Why did I chase her? Why do I care? Why can't I stop thinking about her, wanting her, needing her?
“Because,” I say simply. “Just because.”
She stands carefully. Takes a step toward me.
Then, she kisses me.
It’s soft and fucking devastating. Her hands come up to cup my face, and I'm frozen for half a second before I kiss her back.
This kiss is different. Sweeter. Slower. Like she's asking a question and I'm giving her the answer.
My hands find her waist, pulling her closer. She makes a small sound against my mouth and I deepen the kiss, tasting cinnamon and sugar on her lips.
But then she sways slightly, and reality crashes back.
I pull away, steadying her. “We need to be careful. You’re hurt.”
“I'm fine.”
“You hit your head.” I brush her hair back from her face, checking her pupils again.
She looks up at me. “Then just... hold me. Please.”
How am I supposed to say no to that?
I glance at the window. The sky is starting to lighten, a pale gray that comes before dawn. It's almost four in the morning. We should sleep.
“Come on.” I take her hand, leading her toward the bedroom. “I'm not letting you sleep alone after a head injury.”
“So concerned for my wellbeing,” she teases.
“Someone has to be.” I pull back the covers. “Get in.”
I settle beside her, keeping space between us so she can heal.
She immediately closes that distance, pressing against me, her head on my chest. Her hand over my heart.
“Is this okay?” she whispers.
No. This is dangerous, playing with fire. Everything I shouldn't want and can't resist.
“Yeah,” I say instead. “This is okay.”
We lie there in the growing light. Her breathing slows, evens out. I think she's fallen asleep when her fingers start tracing patterns on my chest.
“Callum?”
“Yeah?”
She props herself up slightly, looking at me. “I’m scared of this. Of how much I…” She stops, bites her lip.
“How much you what?”
“How much I want you.” The words come out in a rush.
I kiss her, cutting off her thoughts with my mouth on hers. She kisses me back, deeper this time. Her hands sliding up my chest, into my hair. I roll us so she's beneath me, careful of her head, my weight on my forearms.
“We should stop,” I say, even as my hips press against hers.
“We should,” she agrees, arching up into me.
“You're injured.”
“I'm fine,” she moans.
“This is a bad idea.”
“The worst,” she teases.
But neither of us stops.
Her hands are pulling at my sweatpants, and mine are sliding under the flannel she's wearing, finding warm skin. She gasps when I touch her, and that sound. Fuck, that sound.
“Tell me to stop,” I say, giving her one last out.
“Don't stop.” Her eyes lock on mine. “Don't you dare stop.”
So I don't.
This time it's different than before. Not the desperate collision of earlier but something that feels dangerously like making love.
I take my time with her, savoring every second. My hands trace the curve of her waist, learning the places that make her breath catch.
I kiss the hollow of her throat. “You’re perfect like this.”
I slide into her slowly, feeling her take me inch by inch. It’s almost too good, the way she fits around me. I move slow, gliding in and out, each motion drawing a soft gasp from her. This slowness feels better than the frenzy.
“Fuck, you feel incredible,” I say, my lips grazing her ear. “I could stay like this forever.”
Her hands explore my chest, fingers digging into my shoulders, pulling me closer. She arches beneath me, meeting each slow thrust.
Her eyes flutter, half-closed, and I cup her jaw gently. “Look at me. I want to see your eyes when you come.”
She does, sooner than I expect. Her breath hitches, her body tenses, and she comes fast, a quiet cry escaping her lips as she shudders beneath me. The sight of her pushes me to the edge. I follow, letting the wave build and crash as I spill into her.
We stay locked together, breathing in sync. I should pull away before this gets even more complicated.
But I don't.
I tuck her against my chest. Her head fits perfectly under my chin. Her hand rests over my heart.
“Sleep,” I whisper into her hair.
“Mmm.” She's already drifting off.
I should sleep too. But I can't.
This is more than sex, more than attraction, more than some game of revenge we can walk away from.
This is feelings. Real ones. The kind that don't disappear when the roads clear.
And I'm so fucked.
Because soon, the storm will pass. The roads will clear. And she'll leave. Go back to her life and her job and my sister.
And I'll be here. Still the family disgrace. Still the man she's not supposed to want.
But for now, while she's here in my arms, I can imagine a world where this doesn't end.
I press a kiss to her forehead and finally let my eyes close.
I wake to the sound of a door opening.
For a second, I'm disoriented. My arms are full of a warm, sleeping, gorgeous woman, and my brain is fuzzy with too little sleep.
Then I hear it.
“Piper?” A voice calling out. Familiar. Female. “You here?”
Fuck. It’s my sister.
I gently shake Piper awake, my hand over her mouth before she can make a sound.
Her eyes fly open, confused and sleepy.
“My sister is here,” I whisper against her ear.
She goes rigid. I feel the panic spike through her body. She tries to sit up fast and winces, her hand going to her head.
“Careful,” I say, steadying her.
“What do we do?”
“I'll try to sneak out. You keep her distracted.”
“How?” She stares at me like I've lost my mind.
“Piper!” Mackenzie's voice is closer now. Footsteps in the living room, heading our direction.
I grab the flannel from the floor and some sweatpants, then toss them to her.
“Piper?” Mackenzie calls again. “You here?”
The footsteps are at the hallway now. Getting closer to the bedroom door.
Piper yanks the flannel on, pulls up the sweatpants.
“You stay here,” she whispers. “Let me take care of this.”
“Piper, you don't have to…”
“Yes, I do.” She's already moving toward the door. “Just stay here. Please.”
I want to argue and protect her from whatever's about to happen.
But she's not looking at me anymore.
She slips out the bedroom door and closes it softly behind her. Leaving me on the other side, hiding like a coward.
I hear Mackenzie's voice, surprised and relieved. “Oh my God, there you are! I was so worried.”
Then Piper's voice, too quiet for me to make out the words.
I press my ear against the door, heart pounding.
This is it. The moment I lose her.
I can’t sit around and wait for my sister to figure out exactly what her best friend has been doing with the brother she hates.
I can’t sit here while everything comes to an end.