Chapter 2 – Jason
She sleeps like she's been running for years and finally stopped.
I stand in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, watching the rise and fall of her breathing beneath my grandmother's quilt.
The firelight catches in her dark hair, turns it amber at the edges. She's curled on her side, one hand tucked under her cheek, and there's something about the way she fits into this space that makes my chest feel tight.
I've been alone in this cabin for five years. I chose it. Chose the silence, the distance, the safety of not being responsible for anyone else's life.
Now she's sleeping on my couch wearing my flannel, and the cabin doesn't feel empty anymore.
It feels dangerous.
I force myself to move into the kitchen, to do something with my hands before I do something stupid like brush that strand of hair away from her face. I need to stop staring at the woman asleep in my living room like she's some kind of miracle.
Except she laughed when I made that stupid joke about my clothes. She told me she was trying to take up space in her own life, and the way she said it made me want to tell her she could take up all the space she needed. Here.
With me.
Which is insane. I don't know her. She's been here less than an hour.
But I keep seeing the way she looked when she first walked through the door, those wide blue eyes taking in the garlands and the tree and the lights like I'd given her something precious. Like this rough cabin in the middle of nowhere was somehow exactly what she needed.
The way I felt when I saw her standing next to her wrecked car, shivering in the storm, wearing city boots and a coat that was never going to be enough, that was the same instinct that used to send me up mountains in the middle of the night to find lost hikers. Protect. Rescue. Bring them home safe.
I thought I'd buried that instinct with Marcus.
Maybe some things don't stay buried.
Behind me, fabric rustles. I turn just as Elizabeth appears in the kitchen doorway, and everything in my body goes still.
She's backlit by the fire, and my flannel shirt hangs to her mid-thigh, the sleeves rolled up to reveal slender wrists.
Her legs are bare except for the thick socks I gave her, and her hair is mussed from sleep, falling in soft waves around her face.
She's all curves—hips and breasts and the soft stomach visible where the shirt pulls slightly—and she's so goddamn beautiful I forget how to breathe.
I look away fast, focusing on the wine like it's the most important thing in the world, because looking at her feels dangerous. Like staring directly at the sun.
"Sorry," she says, her voice still rough with sleep. "I didn't mean to fall asleep on your couch."
"Don't apologize." The words come out rougher than I intend, so I clear my throat and try again. "You needed rest. Storm wiped you out."
"The storm, or the terror of thinking I was going to die alone in my car on Christmas Eve?"
There's humor in her voice, self-deprecating and warm, and when I glance at her, she's smiling. It transforms her whole face, makes her eyes crinkle at the corners, and something in my chest loosens.
"Either way," I say, and I almost smile back. "Wine helps."
"Is that a mountain remedy? Wine fixes everything?"
"It's a Reed family remedy." I ladle the mulled wine into both mugs, the steam rising between us. "My grandmother swore by it. Said there wasn't a problem in the world that couldn't be improved by the right spices and a little bit of warmth."
Elizabeth moves closer, drawn by the scent or the heat or something else I don't want to name.
She takes the mug I offer, and when our fingers brush, the contact sends electricity straight through me.
Her eyes meet mine, and I see the same awareness reflected there, the recognition that something is happening between us, something neither of us expected.
She takes a sip, closes her eyes.
I want to tell her everything. Every tradition, every memory, every reason this cabin is the only place I feel like I can breathe. But I don't. Instead, I just nod toward the living room.
"I made cinnamon roll dough earlier. We could bake them, if you're hungry."
The smile she gives me is bright enough to rival the fire. "You're offering me homemade cinnamon rolls and mulled wine on Christmas Eve? Are you sure you're not some kind of mountain Christmas spirit?"
"Pretty sure I'm just a guy with too much time on his hands."
"Well, mountain Christmas spirit or not, I'm absolutely saying yes to cinnamon rolls."
The dough is cool and smooth under my hands, and Elizabeth stands beside me at the counter, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her body.
She's rolled up the flannel sleeves and her forearms are dusted with flour.
There's a smudge on her cheek, white against her pale skin, and I have to physically restrain myself from reaching out to brush it away.
"Like this?" She's shaping the dough into something that's supposed to be a roll but looks more like a lumpy ball.
"Almost." I move behind her, telling myself it's just to help, and guide her hands with mine. "Stretch it a little more, then roll from the center out."
The scent of her hair fills my lungs, something floral and sweet underneath the pine from my soap, and my pulse kicks up hard enough that I know she must feel it.
"You're good at this," she says, and her voice sounds breathless. "The whole domestic thing."
"I've had practice." My hands are still covering hers, and I should move away, but I don't. "Living alone means you either learn to cook or survive on canned soup."
"And you chose cooking."
"I chose not to die of scurvy."
She laughs, and the sound vibrates through her back into my chest.
I force myself to step away before I do something stupid like press my mouth to the curve of her neck and find out if she tastes as sweet as she smells.
"You've got flour," I say roughly, gesturing to her face.
"Where?" She swipes at her chin, missing entirely.
"Here." I reach out without thinking, my thumb finding the smudge on her cheekbone. Her skin is impossibly soft, and when I wipe away the flour, she goes completely still. Her eyes are locked on mine, pupils dilated, and I can see her pulse fluttering in her throat.
She shivers.
I feel it down to my bones.
For one suspended moment, neither of us moves. Then I pull my hand back like I've been burned, and Elizabeth looks away, color flooding her cheeks.
"Thanks," she whispers.
"Yeah." My voice sounds wrecked. "Let's get these in the oven."
We move into the living room while the cinnamon rolls bake, drawn by the fire and the tree and the need to put space between us that isn't charged with the kind of tension that makes me forget every reason I have for keeping my distance.
Elizabeth gravitates toward the Christmas tree, and I watch as she touches one of the carved ornaments—a tiny bear standing on its hind legs.
"You made these," she says. It's not a question.
"Yeah."
"They're beautiful." She turns to me, holding the bear in her palm. "How did you learn?"
I settle onto the rug near the fire, stretching my legs out. "My grandfather taught me." I pause, choosing my words. "After I stopped doing search and rescue, I needed something to focus on. Carving helped."
Elizabeth sits beside me, cross-legged, close enough that our knees almost touch. "Search and rescue?"
"For five years. I loved it, helping people, bringing them home safe." My jaw tightens. "Until I couldn't."
She doesn't push. Doesn't ask for details or try to fix what's broken. She just sits with me in the silence, holding that wooden bear, and somehow that's more intimate than anything else that's happened tonight.
"I'm glad you found something that helps," she says finally, soft.
"Me too."
She hangs the bear back on the tree, then reaches for another ornament, a star with seven points. "This one's my favorite."
"Seven points for seven wishes." I take a sip of wine, watching her trace the carved lines. "One for each night of the week, if you believe in that kind of thing."
"Do you?"
"I believe in traditions. They're... steadying. Especially when everything else feels uncertain."
Elizabeth looks at me then, really looks at me, and I see understanding in her eyes. Like she knows exactly what I mean because she's felt it too, that need for something solid to hold onto when the world won't stop spinning.
"What's your tradition?" she asks. "For Christmas Eve?"
"You make a wish on the first star you see." The words feel weighted, important. "My grandmother said Christmas Eve wishes are the only ones that really count because it's the one night a year when magic is listening."
Elizabeth's smile is soft, almost wistful. "I like that."
"Do you have any traditions?"
"Not really. My family's always been..." She trails off, shaking her head. "Complicated. We do the motions—tree, presents, dinner—but it never feels like what I imagine Christmas should feel like. Like this."
She gestures around the cabin, at the tree and the fire and the garlands, and when her eyes return to mine, there's something raw in them that makes my heart kick hard against my ribs.
"Like home," she finishes quietly.
I don't know what to say to that. Don't know how to tell her that this cabin hasn't felt like home since my grandmother died, not really. That I've been hiding here instead of living here.
That she walked through my door and suddenly the lights seem brighter.
So I just say, "The cinnamon rolls are probably done."
We eat them warm from the oven, butter melting into the sweet dough, and Elizabeth makes sounds that should be illegal while she eats. Little hums of pleasure that go straight through me and settle low in my gut.
When she licks cinnamon sugar from her thumb, I have to look away before I do something we're not ready for.
After, we end up back by the fire. Elizabeth sits so close our shoulders touch, and neither of us moves away. The wine has warmed us both from the inside, and the fire paints everything gold and amber.
Outside, the storm rages on, but here, it's just the two of us and the quiet crackle of burning wood.
"Tell me about your wish tradition again," Elizabeth says, her head tilted back against the couch, eyes half-closed.
"You make a wish on the first star you see on Christmas Eve," I repeat. "Close your eyes and really mean it."
She closes her eyes, face serene in the firelight. Her lips move silently, forming words I can't hear, and I watch her like she's the star, like she's the thing worth wishing on.
When she opens her eyes, she catches me staring. "What did you wish for?"
"I didn't wish yet."
"Why not?"
Because I'm looking at you.
"Haven't seen the first star yet," I say instead.
She shifts slightly closer, her knee pressing against mine through my jeans. The contact is light, barely there, but it might as well be a brand. "Maybe we don't need stars."
Her face is tilted up toward mine, lips slightly parted, and I can see every shade of blue in her eyes—midnight and morning and the deep ocean I want to drown in.
She's so close I can feel her breath, and every instinct I have is screaming at me to close the distance, to find out if she tastes like cinnamon and honey and Christmas wishes.
But Marcus is still buried on that mountain. And I'm still the man who made the wrong call and got his best friend killed.
I don't deserve softness. I don't deserve this woman with her brave heart and her curves that fit perfectly against me, looking at me like I'm someone worth wishing for.
I pull back. Stand up. Put distance between us before I forget all the reasons I should.
"You should get some sleep, I’m sorry I woke you up," I say, and my voice comes out too rough. "Storm should clear by morning, and you'll want to check on your car."
Hurt flashes across her face, quick and sharp, before she hides it behind a small smile. She stands too, wrapping her arms around herself, suddenly small in my too-big flannel.
"Right. Of course." She takes a step toward the bedroom, then pauses, looking back at me. "Goodnight, Jason."
"Goodnight, Elizabeth."
She disappears through the doorway, soft footsteps fading into silence, and I'm left standing by the fire alone. My hands are shaking. My chest is tight. Every part of me wants to follow her, to knock on that door and tell her I'm sorry, tell her the truth.
But I don't.
I sink back down onto the rug and stare into the flames, listening to the storm outside and the even more dangerous storm building inside my chest.
I didn't kiss her.
But God help me, I already know I'm hers.