24. Paige
Paige
Two keys rest on my kitchen counter. One opens this cabin.
The other, the one Aiden gave me two days ago, opens his house.
I stir sauce on the stove and try to look at neither, the scrape of the spoon loud in the quiet room.
He didn’t ask for anything when he gave it to me, but sliding it onto my ring feels like an answer I haven’t chosen yet.
This evening was supposed to be mine—wine poured, windows open, a book waiting on the porch.
I’ve been looking forward to the solitude.
I still am. But the weight of that second key changes the shape of the quiet.
The ranch key does not ruin my solitude. Aiden did not demand that I use it or ask me to trade mine for his. He gave me access to a place where I already spend time, then cleared a drawer because he remembers that I bring the same bag every Friday.
I like knowing I can let myself in if he is late finishing work. I like the idea of starting coffee in his kitchen, choosing a book from the stack beside his bed, and hearing him come home to me. Access feels intimate because I get to decide when I use it.
It was thoughtful and romantic. The way he watched me close my fingers around the key made me want to kiss him until neither of us remembered that my tote was sitting downstairs.
So I did.
Then he showed me the closet.
I lower the heat and carry my bowl to the porch. The hammock shifts beneath me as I settle into my usual spot, but I leave the book untouched.
My cabin looks especially small from out here.
The porch holds one chair, one narrow table, and a hammock that takes up more room than sensible furniture should.
Inside, books fill the shelves I installed myself ...
because the cabin came with exactly one, and the previous owner apparently had no respect for storage.
I chose this place because it asks nothing from me.
I can come home, close the door, and spend three hours reading without anyone needing an answer.
I can eat dinner at nine, decline an invitation, or wake early for a trail without coordinating a single detail.
The quiet restores me. It has never felt empty.
It feels different tonight.
I reach for my wine and catch myself listening for tires on the gravel. Aiden has never arrived without being invited, and he will not tonight. I know the sound of his truck before it reaches the bend, the way his shoulders fill my doorway when he steps inside.
Missing him changes the quiet without changing what this place means to me. I can want his boots beside my door tonight and still want other nights exactly like this one.
That should be easy to explain.
Except Aiden hears permanence in every choice I make toward him. A key becomes belonging. A drawer becomes Fridays without a bag. A family invitation becomes an answer he can give for both of us because he has already decided we are an ‘us’ with one calendar.
I like being an ‘us.’ I want my own calendar.
Both are true. I’m not certain how to make them fit inside Aiden’s plans.
I finish dinner and take my bowl inside. The two keys still sit together on the counter, close enough that their metal edges touch. For the first time since Aiden put it in my hand, I pick up the ranch key and turn it over in my palm.
I could leave it here until Friday. I could put it in a drawer and wait for the discomfort to shrink into something easier to ignore. Aiden would notice the distance before I found the perfect words for it, then try to solve whatever he thought was wrong.
That would be unfair to both of us.
I slide the key onto my ring beside the one to my cabin. The weight changes, small and obvious against my palm.
Then I pick up my phone and text him.
Me: Can you come over? I want to talk, and I want to see you.
His reply arrives less than a minute later.
Aiden: On my way.
Aiden’s truck rolls into the clearing twenty minutes after that. He cuts the engine, and my pulse gives one hard thud as he climbs out in jeans and a dark T-shirt, looking infuriatingly good for a man I invited over to discuss boundaries.
I meet him on the porch with my key ring in hand.
His gaze drops to it immediately. “You put it on.”
“I did.”
Some of the tension leaves his shoulders. “Is that the good news before the bad news?”
“There’s no bad news.” I step back so he can join me. “There are things I need you to understand.”
“That sentence has never relaxed a man in the history of language.”
Despite myself, I smile. “Sit down, Slade.”
He takes the lone chair and leans forward with his forearms on his thighs.
“I love the key,” I say. “I love that you want me to come in without knocking. I love the drawer, the space in your bathroom, and how much thought you put into all of it.”
Aiden studies me. “You’re listing a lot of things you love like you’re about to return them.”
“I’m keeping them.” I lift the key ring. “I also need to keep this place.”
“I didn’t ask you to give it up.”
“You said I should never have to pack for Fridays again.”
“I said you shouldn’t have to. You can still bring the bag if you enjoy hauling your toothbrush across Colorado.”
“Aiden.”
His mouth tightens. “I’m listening.”
I set the keys beside my wineglass. “When you say things like that, it feels like every choice I make toward you becomes proof that I’ll eventually make all the choices you want.
The key leads to the drawer, the drawer leads to spending every Friday there, and spending every Friday there leads to this cabin becoming unnecessary. ”
His gaze moves past me toward the open door. “Do you think I want to take this from you?”
“I think you want to give me so much that you don’t always notice what I have to set down to hold what you’re offering.”
He goes quiet, turning my words over like a practical problem he can solve.
“I can stop assuming Fridays,” he says.
“I don’t want you to stop wanting them.”
“Then help me understand the difference.”
“The difference is asking.” I draw one foot beneath me.
“The same goes for your family. I like them, and I enjoy plenty of the things we do together. I still need an invitation to be just that—an invitation. When you answer for me before I’ve said yes, I’m the one who has to disappoint everyone if I choose differently. ”
“I apologized for that.”
“I know, and I accepted it. I’m explaining why it mattered.”
He nods slowly. “I’ll ask.”
“Thank you.”
He looks toward the trees beyond the porch, a muscle ticking in his jaw before he brings his attention back to me.
“So what are we building here, Paige?”
The question reaches deeper than a key or a cookout. “It looks like this. Your house and my cabin. Time with Josie. Time alone. Nights together because we want them, family events we choose, and room for both of us to remain ourselves.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
His expression tightens. “That’s the part I hear.”
“I’m being honest.”
“I know. I’m trying to understand what we’re growing toward if everything stays separate.”
“Everything isn’t separate. You’re in my home. I’m in yours. Your daughter has books on my shelves, and I have a drawer beside your bed.”
“But you need an out—a life that’s waiting for you without me in it.”
“That isn’t what this cabin means.”
“It’s what it feels like.”
I leave the hammock and crouch between his knees. “This place reminds me that loving someone doesn’t require handing over every part of myself. My choice to be with you has to stay voluntary.”
His hands settle carefully on my hips. “And to me, it means building something that would hurt to walk away from. Something we’d both lose.”
My cabin gives me the freedom to love him honestly. To Aiden, it sounds like an exit I insist on keeping unlocked.
I touch his face. “You would already be a loss.”
His eyes close, and a breath shudders out of him. He leans into my palm for a second before they open again, ...something quieter replacing the guarded tension.
“Do you want me to go home?” he asks, his voice rough.
“No.”
“Do you still want me tonight?”
I rise, step between his legs, and answer with a kiss that he meets with equal force. “Yes,” I whisper against his mouth. “I still want you.”
Aiden rises from the chair without breaking the kiss, his hands sliding around my waist as he backs me toward the open door.
“Inside,” he says against my mouth.
“Bossy so soon after a conversation about asking?”
He stops at the threshold. “Paige. Inside. Before I fall off this chair trying to kiss you properly.”
I smile. “Since you asked so nicely.”
I grab my book and key ring on the way in. Aiden notices the book and takes it from my hand as I step inside.
“What were you reading before you invited me over?”
“I thought you came to discuss our relationship.”
“We did. Now I’d like to evaluate my competition.”
He opens to the page I marked and scans it while I set my wineglass and key ring on the coffee table.
“He talks for three pages before he even touches her?”
“He’s building anticipation. He has her wrists pinned over her head.”
“That part is efficient. All the talking isn’t.”
I laugh and sit on the couch. “You’re jealous of a fictional man.”
“I have concerns about his technique.” He closes the book and places it on the coffee table. “Show me what you liked.”
I feel Aiden’s gaze move over me, slow and deliberate, before it settles on my bare legs. “I expect you to tell me what you want. We’ve established how important it is that I ask.”
“Do not use my serious point to improve your foreplay.”
“I’m using your serious point to listen.”
That answer strips the joke out of me. Aiden comes closer, then waits.
I spread my knees enough for him to step between them. “Sit down.”
He takes my place on the couch, and I climb onto his lap. His hands remain on the cushion beside his thighs even when I settle over him.
“Where do you want them?” he asks.
“On my ass.”
“That’s specific.”
“You said you wanted direction.”
His palms close around me, hauling me against the hard ridge beneath his jeans. Satisfaction flashes across his face.
“The woman who invited me over to explain how much she needs her own space, then climbed into my lap.”
“Those ideas coexist beautifully.”
“They do from where I’m sitting.”
I kiss him before he can turn that into another question about our future. His mouth opens beneath mine, warm and demanding. His grip shifts beneath my shorts, skin against skin as he rocks me slowly over him.
Desire has never been our problem. Wanting Aiden is so easy it feels reckless.
I lift my arms when he catches the bottom of my shirt. He pulls it over my head, then finds my throat while one hand cups my breast through my bra.
“You wore this while you were home alone reading?” he asks.
“I wasn’t expecting company.”
“Then why do you look like every filthy thought I had on the drive over?”
“Poor impulse control?”
“Mine or yours?”
I drag my palm over the front of his jeans. “Both.”
Aiden groans against my skin. I reach for his belt, but he catches my wrist and presses my hand more firmly over him.
“If that belt comes undone, I’m putting you on your knees.”
Heat rushes through me. “Maybe I was hoping your technique would justify the arrogance.”
His phone rings.
Aiden’s entire body goes still beneath mine. His hand jerks toward the phone.
“Mom,” he says as he answers. “Hey. Is Josie okay?”
I slide off his lap and reach for my shirt. His free hand settles on my knee, keeping us connected.
“Put her on.” His voice softens. “Hey, Jo. Grandma said you had a bad dream.”
I pull on my shirt while he reassures her and promises he is coming home.
“Sorry,” he says, ending the call. “She woke up scared. Wants her own bed.”
“Then go get her.”
“I hate leaving like this.”
“Aiden, your six-year-old asked for her dad. That isn’t a debate.”
He stands, watching me as I smooth my shirt. “You could come.”
The invitation warms me because he asked. “I could.”
“Do you want to?”
“I want you to take care of Josie, and I want to finish my book here. Text me when she’s settled?”
Aiden’s expression sobers as he reaches for my key ring and places it in my palm.
“You already care whether she gets home okay,” he says.
“Of course I do.”
“You’re already part of our life.”
“I know.”
“I just wish I knew you’d still want to be part of it a year from now.”
I close my fingers around the two keys. “I can tell you what I choose now. I won’t promise answers before I have them.”
His thumb brushes my cheek. “I’m trying to let that be enough.”
“I know.”
He kisses me once, slow and tender, then leaves to bring his daughter home.
Choosing Josie’s need is simple. Choosing Aiden tonight feels just as natural. But he wants every tomorrow locked down in advance, and that is the one promise I still can’t make.