Chapter 7
Nate
Fallon always said Mac kept the Montana cabin stocked for “emergencies.”
Apparently, Mac’s crises are resolved with a bottle of thirty year old single malt hidden behind a sack of old pancake mix.
“It’s criminal you haven’t already drunk all of this,” Ally says, holding the amber bottle at eye level. The fire catches in the liquid, turning it molten. “This is basically liquid gold. Or even liquid god.”
“I don’t tend to drink much when I’m burned out,” I admit. “It hits weird.”
“Well,” she says, pouring a splash into two chipped mugs, “I’m still not letting this masterpiece age another year in that sad little cupboard.”
We’re not drunk. Not even close. Two-inch pours, water chasers, slow sips. Enough to make us warmer, looser. Maybe a little less guarded.
The storm softens against the windows, hissing instead of howling.
My ankle throbs, but the heat from the fire and the heat from the whiskey blur together.
Ally sits cross-legged on the rug, wearing my hoodie over my dad’s flannel, hair loose around her shoulders.
Her cheeks are flushed from the bathroom steam earlier, and she radiates warmth like she was made for firelight.
“This is stupid,” she says, swirling her whiskey. “Being stuck in this cabin together. Us. Of all people.”
“Agreed,” I say. I don’t, obviously; this stolen one on one time with her is an incredible gift.
She glances up sharply. “You’re not supposed to agree so quickly.”
Ah, but you don’t want me to disagree, my love. “You sounded pretty certain. I didn’t want to argue.”
Her mouth twitches. “Smartass.”
I sip, watching her from the corner of my eye. She’s avoiding the couch, avoiding sitting near me, avoiding letting her knee brush mine even accidentally. Which is wise, and perfectly reasonable.
Pity my body, taut and responsive behind the relaxed mask, doesn’t understand reason.
“So,” she says, leaning her head back against the couch, eyes half-lidded, “we’re supposed to forget what happened, right?”
I can feel my pulse jump in my throat. “Your rule,” I remind her softly.
“Right.” She swallows hard. “Forget.”
We sit there in the velvety thick quiet for another long moment. The crackle of the fire is too loud, and her breathing is too soft. My heart is too heavy in my chest.
She clears her throat. “So, uh… the generator.”
“Yes?” I ask.
“You could’ve been badly hurt.” She plays listlessly with the rim of her cup.
“I wasn’t.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is to me.”
She scowls at the air, frustrated with me, with herself, and with the laws of physics that threatened me. “You scared me.”
Something inside me tugs, like pain and hope tangled together. “I know,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry for that, too.”
Her eyes flick to mine. Soft. A little too honest.
“I don’t want to fight,” she whispers.
My spine relaxes. “I never wanted to fight you.”
“You kissed me,” she blurts, then flushes crimson. “I’m not bringing it up to yell, I promise. I just… why?” She looks like she regrets asking even before the question hangs fully between us.
I set my mug down, hands suddenly unsteady. “Because I was terrified,” I say. “Because adrenaline is stupid. Because you were brilliant and fierce and you saved my life like it was easy.” It’s true, just not the whole story.
She stares at me like she’s bracing for an earthquake. The same one I am.
Maybe it’s time, finally, to just be honest. Stop pretending. Stop hiding. And just admit the truth, for its own sake.
“And,” I add quietly, “because I’ve wanted to kiss you for a very long time.”
Her inhale is sharp enough to hurt.
“Nate…”
I shake my head to cut her off. “It’s the truth.”
She looks away, staring into the fire like it has answers and solutions that will make this all turn out right.
My voice feels too big for the room. “It doesn’t mean you owe me anything. It doesn’t mean I expect -”
“How long?” she whispers.
“What?”
Her gaze lifts, pinning me cleanly, cutting through all my defenses.
“How long have you wanted to kiss me?”
The answer, twelve long, aching years, hammers through me. But the truth that comes out is gentler: “Since way before I allowed myself to admit it.”
Her lips part, not in surprise, but in recognition. She reaches blindly for her mug and downs the rest.
I remember I have something that needs to be made clear. “Ally… the night you saw me with your friend… nothing happened.”
Her head snaps up.
“What?”
“She crawled into the bed after I passed out. I didn’t touch her. Didn’t kiss her - I mean to say, she kissed me, but I… God, I was so drunk that I asked her if she was you. And the next thing I remember, I woke up, hungover to fuck and dealing with your friend sulking.”
Her face drains, then flushes, then cycles back through shock like she’s processing a foreign language. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that?” she breathes.
“You barely looked at me for a year after,” I admit. “Seemed like you hated me. I figured clarifying wouldn’t help.”
“I didn’t hate you,” she whispers, voice cracking. “I… God. I thought you liked her back. And Chelsea bragged afterwards. I thought you and she…”
My chest loosens painfully. She really thought all this time that I fucked her friend? Shit, that’s… shit. “I didn’t. And I don’t know why she said we did. I woke up hungover and spent ages consoling her that she wasn’t undesirable.” Nor was she. I just wasn’t interested.
“You said you asked her if she was me.” Her fingers tangle together.
I huff a brief laugh. “Yes. Apparently I told her to be you, or I couldn’t help her.”
Ally blinks fast, eyes brightening in the firelight. “You have no idea what that moment did to me. When I saw you both.”
“Tell me,” I say, voice low.
“No,” she says immediately. Too defensive, too fast. “No need. It’s old history.”
“Ally,” I say gently, “we’re literally trapped in a cabin. There’s nowhere for the truth to go except out.”
She clenches her fingers in the hem of the hoodie she stole from me.
“When I saw you with Chelsea,” she says haltingly, “I realized… I knew - I mean, I felt something I shouldn’t have felt. Something I thought I’d grow out of. And I didn’t. And it scared the absolute shit out of me.”
My breath stops. This is it. This is the moment I’ve always wanted, and it’s happening right now.
“That’s why I avoided you after that,” she finishes quietly. “Not because I hated you. Because I didn’t.”
Silence drops like a ton of bricks.
Slowly, I shift off the couch and onto the rug opposite her so we’re eye to eye. She tenses, not pulling away, but bracing; almost like she’s waiting for me to ruin everything again.
“Ally,” I say softly, “I don’t want to forget.”
Her eyes flick up, unnerved.
“You said forgetting will keep us sane,” I continue. “But I’d rather be honest with you than sane.”
“That’s not fair,” she whispers.
“I’m not asking for anything.” My voice stays steady. “Not asking, not assuming, not expecting. I just want you to know the truth. I’ve wanted you for years. For years. And I’ve been trying not to. And I will keep trying if that’s what you need.”
Her breath shakes.
“I don’t know what I need,” she murmurs.
“It’s alright.” I’m whispering now.
We stare at each other, the space between us crackling harder than the fire. She shifts, and her knee brushes mine by accident. Both of us freeze, our gazes darkening.
Ally’s voice is barely a breath: “Nate…”
“Yes?”
“Can I…” She swallows. “Can I kiss you?”
Her words, in that longed for combination, hits me so hard I nearly forget how to breathe. “Are you sure?” I whisper.
She nods once. “Ask me again when you get closer.”
I shift forward on my knees, stopping just shy of touching her. “Ally. Are you sure?” I ask, not wanting to make any more missteps on the way to everything I’ve ever wished for.
Her gaze drops to my mouth. “Yes.”
I cup her jaw gently. “One more time.”
She leans into my hand, pupils blown wide. “Yes,” she repeats more forcefully.
So I kiss her. Nothing reckless, and nothing stolen this time. Just soft, deliberate pressure, her lips warm and sweet and cautious against mine.
The second her breath catches, I pull back a fraction. Just enough to give her space.
She chases the distance.
Her hand clutches the collar of my shirt, tugging me back into her, mouth opening on a soft, involuntary sound that detonates every nerve ending I have.
This time it isn’t soft.
It’s heat.
It’s years of swallowed longing overtaking us both, and her fingers slipping into my hair as her body starts leaning into mine.
I groan into her mouth, careful even now to check pressure, angle, breath, until she makes a frustrated little noise and swings one leg over my lap, settling astride me in a move that is absolutely not careful.
“Ally,” I breathe against her lip. “We don’t have to -”
“Shut up,” she whispers, sliding her hips against me. “Do not ruin this. I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“Then tell me to stop,” I say, eyes locked to hers. “And I’ll stop.”
“If you stop, I’ll scream.” Her mouth crashes into mine again, hot and urgent. Her hands slide under my shirt, dragging over warm skin, and I catch her waist to steady her, my pulse slamming through every inch of my body.
She pants against my jaw. “Take this off.”
I strip her out of my hoodie, my shirt following a heartbeat later. Dad’s flannel and her thermal top comes off next. Christ. She’s now naked from the waist up, her skin flushed gold in firelight, looking like a sin and a blessing all at once.
“Nate,” she whispers, kissing a line down my throat, “please. Fuck me.”
I lift her easily, lay her back on the rug near the fire. Her hair fans out, wild and shining, eyes fixed on me like I’m something she’s been starving for.
“You’re beautiful,” I say before I can stop myself. “God, you’re so fucking beautiful, Ally.”
She grabs my hair and drags me down. “Shut the fuck up and kiss me.”
I do.