Chapter 6
Ally
Nate limps into the cabin first, shaking snow out of his hair, jaw clenched like he’s bracing for a physical blow. I follow a few steps behind, still vibrating with adrenaline and anger and something else I refuse to name.
I close the door harder than necessary. The generator hums, steadier now, thanks to him. And the fire crackles, casting the room in warm, judgmental orange.
Neither of us speaks for a minute. I still can’t believe he kissed me.
In honesty, even when I said Don’t, I wanted him to.
I pulled him closer; goddamnit, I lost my head and kissed him back for a split second.
But the way he just… leaned forward and took…
That’s not something I ever thought he’d do. Or ever thought he’d want to.
It’s changed everything.
Nate’s gaze flicks to me, apologetic, uncertain. “Ally…”
“No.” I hold up a hand. “Not yet.” I’m not ready to handle this right now.
He stops, breath fogging faintly in the cold draft still lingering near the threshold.
I exhale. “Sit down. You’re hurt.”
He opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but must see something in my face because he doesn’t. He lowers himself onto the couch with a grunt, rubbing his ankle with one hand, not meeting my eyes.
I fetch the first aid kit from under the sink, set it on the coffee table, and kneel in front of him without ceremony. His breath stutters, but I pretend not to notice.
“Boot,” I order.
He unties it slowly, wincing as he slides it off. I peel back the thick sock; the ankle underneath is swollen and mottled with the early bloom of a bruise. I make a low sound without meaning to. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he murmurs.
“Shut up.” I touch gently around the bone, evaluating. “Does this hurt?”
“Not too - ow. Yes. That. Definitely that.”
I nod. “Yeah, a sprain, I think. But I’m not a doctor. You need to stay off it. Keep it elevated.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“Nate,” I say sharply. “Stop minimizing.”
His mouth shuts. A muscle jumps in his jaw. “That’s exactly what I’m used to doing, though.”
Ignoring his loaded remark with all my might, I wrap the ankle in the elastic bandage, tight but not too tight. His breath hitches once, in pain, not anything else. Good. I don’t want anything else right now. I don’t.
When I finish, I sit back on my heels and look at him.
This is the hard part.
Especially when he looks so filled with regret.
He hesitates briefly. “About earlier,” he says, voice low. “I’m sorry. I know sorry doesn’t fix it. I just… I wasn’t thinking. I was scared after the fall, and you saved my life and I guess I just reacted.”
“It wasn’t OK,” I say quietly.
“I know.” Shame darkens his eyes. “I shouldn’t have touched you without asking. Or at all.”
He means it. Every syllable rings with sincerity, regret, something like self-loathing.
But none of that undoes the moment. The shock of it. The heat of his mouth pressed to mine, fast and reckless. The way my body had responded with a lightning bolt of sensation I didn’t ask for, but can’t deny with a straight face.
I take a breath. “Look, we’re stuck here together. Days, maybe. And I don’t want to spend those days avoiding each other or simmering in awkwardness. So.” I lift my chin. “We forget it happened.”
Nate’s brows lift, surprised. “Forget it?”
“Yes.”
He nods slowly. “If that’s what you want.”
“It’s what will keep us both sane.”
A bitter ghost of a smile touches his mouth, but he chooses not to disagree. “Then consider it forgotten.”
For a heartbeat, the air softens. Then it tightens again.
Because forgetting is already impossible.
He shifts on the couch, inhaling carefully. “Thank you,” he says. “For helping me up the hill with your Olympic skills. And for the bandage.”
One side of my mouth lifts. “Don’t get used to it.”
Nate huffs a laugh. “Wouldn’t dare.”
And that’s it. Conversation done, boundary set, line redrawn. It should feel like relief.
But it doesn’t. At all.
I stand up fast. “I’m going to - uh - take a minute. Shower. Whatever. Just… don’t walk on that ankle.”
“Ally—”
“Nope.” I point at him. “Sit. Stay.”
His eyes flicker with something that is absolutely not helping. “Yes, ma’am.”
***
The bathroom is warm from the fire’s residual heat, but the tiles are cold under my feet. I turn the shower knob until steam fogs the mirror, strip out of my clothes mechanically, step under the water.
The moment heat hits my skin, I break. Not into tears. Into thought. Angry, jumbled, looping thought I’ve been trying to outrun since last night.
And the snap of panic in my chest when I saw Nate had fallen. The arrow leaving my bow like instinct, like the most essential kind of muscle memory. Perhaps that moment was the whole reason for my archery career, why fate turned me that way instead of another.
And then…
His mouth. On mine. Not gentle, or careful.
Not asked for.
Just need. Just a wild, overwhelming impulse.
Nate in his purest and most impure form.
“Potato witted dumbass,” I whisper to the wall, scrubbing my hands over my face. I’m not sure if I mean him or me.
But my pulse doesn’t listen, either way. It beats high and frantic, remembering the heat of him, the shock of contact, and the stupid, treacherous shiver that shot through me before my brain slammed on the brakes.
I brace my hands on the wall, head bowed under the spray. I told him we’d forget it. I meant it. But my body…
My body is not on board.
It’s been a long, bleak few months. The training grind. The pressure. The loneliness, even though I was with Josh; that alone was a glaringly obvious sign that something was wrong, even before Olivia and Josh’s betrayal.
Then, after all that, the drive through a raging snowstorm. Landing in a place where every silence echoes too loudly to subdue my thoughts. Finding one person I never wanted to be trapped with, waiting for me here. Being stupidly kind even when he doesn’t have to be.
My jaw clenches. I hate this. Hate that I still want things I wrote off years ago. That the attraction didn’t die cleanly, even after hurt and distance and a whole relationship with someone else.
I squeeze my eyes shut. This is stupid. And temporary. Nothing more than isolation and emotional exhaustion and wayward biology. That’s all.
That has to be all.
My hand drifts lower before I realize what I’m doing.
I freeze. I shouldn’t…
Then, slowly, deliberately, I let myself breathe. Let myself feel the pounding in my chest, the low heat curling in my stomach, the delicious ache between my thighs that’s been gathering since the moment I saw Nate last night.
I’m allowed this.
No one is watching. No one is being betrayed, certainly not Josh. No boundaries are crossed except the ones I’ve drawn inside myself for too long.
My fingers slide between my legs, silky slick already from thought alone.
A shiver rolls through me. “Fuck,” I whisper, leaning my forehead against the tile and let my hips rock forward, chasing the pressure.
My free hand cups one breast, pinching the nipple the way I actually like rather than the way Josh inflicted it.
Water cascades over my shoulders, my back, my spine.
I breathe in sharply as my fingertips find the best rhythm. It feels like untying a knot that’s been inside me for years., a secret want I kept buried under decency and logic and fear now loosening, unraveling.
Images flicker unbidden.
Nate’s mouth -
No. No. Not that. I’ll loose it entirely.
Nate’s hands, then -
Stop. Still too much.
Nate standing at the bottom of the slope, alive, looking at me like I hung the moon -
God, stop it. I can’t handle it.
Yes I can. This is fantasy, and it’s allowed.
I grit my teeth, but my hips won’t still. My hand moves faster, pressure circling where I’m desperate, needy in a way I don’t want to examine too closely.
Heat coils, low and tight, and my breath comes in short, sharp bursts.
“Shit,” I gasp, head tipped back, eyes squeezing shut as pleasure spikes, sharp and dizzying. I press harder, chasing the swell, the crest, almost there…
A moan escapes me, ragged and low, echoing in the small bathroom. I bite my lip against it.
My thighs tremble. My knees soften like noodles.
The orgasm hits me hard with a startled, breathless rush that makes me grip the edge of the wall with my free hand, riding it, teeth biting down on a sound that would embarrass me if anyone could hear.
The release unwinds something inside me I didn’t know was tangled.
And then it’s over, a relief and a pity in the same moment.
I stand there, breathing hard, water washing over me, heart thudding. My legs feel boneless. My head feels too light, like it’s filled with helium, and body feels wrung-out and warm, all the sharp, torn, wounded edges softened for a few seconds.
But the guilt, the conflict, arrives quickly afterward. Not because I did anything wrong. I didn’t. No one touched me but me. No one was violated.
But the thoughts I used… The images… They leave a lingering aftertaste.
“Nate Woodruff, you absolute complication,” I whisper to myself.
The water is cooling. I turn it off, step out, wrap a towel around myself, still buzzing faintly.
I stare at my reflection in the fogged mirror. At my flushed cheeks, wet hair, eyes that look like they’ve seen a ghost and kissed it.
Well, no more. This was an exception. Tomorrow I need to get my head on straight.
I need distance, even in this cabin. I need boundaries that actually hold.
I won’t let a brief rush of blood to the head erase twelve years of good reasons not to let this happen.
Like how he used to be family. And how his dad cheated on my mum.
And the fact that he’s surrounded by the most commercially beautiful women in the world, and likely saw me as nothing more than a kid sister, his temporary insanity fueled kiss notwithstanding.
I get dressed slowly back into leggings, thermal, and one of Mac’s oversized flannel shirts hanging behind the door. It feels like armor. Don’t kiss me, I smell like your dad.
When I open the bathroom door, steam billows out around me into the hallway. My pulse leaps automatically, stupidly, wondering if Nate is nearby. He isn’t.
He’s on the couch where I left him, leg propped up, reading one of the old paperbacks from the nearest shelf. The firelight warms his face. He looks up when he hears me, expression cautious.
“Hey,” he says, soft. “You OK?”
“Yeah,” I say, with a steadiness that surprises even me. “How are you holding up?”
He nods at his bandaged ankle. “Hurts. But manageable.” He grins. “Good thing series three wrapped filming already. I wouldn’t want to ride a horse with this.”
“Mmm.” I hover near the back of the couch, keeping a healthy, necessary distance. The madness of earlier hangs between us like a third presence neither of us can pretend isn’t there.
He closes the book, thumb marking his place. “About… forgetting,” he says carefully. “I’m gonna do my best. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. I don’t want to make this harder.”
Harder. Great choice of word, Nate.
“I know,” I say. “It’s OK. I did mean what I said. We’re stuck together, and it’s already tension city round here. Let’s not make it any worse.”
Nate’s eyes search mine, quiet and earnest. “I won’t touch you again. Not unless -”
“Don’t finish that,” I say quickly. “There is no unless.”
His throat works. “Right.”
Silence reigns again. Not comfortable. Not hostile. Just full.
He finally tilts his head toward the kitchen. “You hungry? I can help make lunch if you don’t mind passing me things I can’t reach.”
I almost laugh. Almost. “Yeah,” I say. “Lunch would be good.”
We move around each other in the kitchen with careful choreography; polite, neutral, pretending nothing changed.
But it did.
And I know that, even if Nate never touches me again, and even if I never let myself want anything I shouldn’t… Something in me woke up today. Something I’ve kept buried for years.
And no amount of determined forgetting will put it back to sleep.