Chapter 5
FIVE
EMMA
I don’t know why I thought I’d sleep after what happened on the ridge.
I didn’t.
I lay awake for hours replaying it—the aurora spilling across the sky like a curtain of green fire, Kendrick’s breath warm against my cheek, the way he’d kissed me like it was something he never meant to do and something he never wanted to stop.
By morning, my heart feels too full and too unsettled for someone I barely know. Someone who keeps saying he doesn’t do temporary. Someone who shouldn’t be a complication when my whole life is on the verge of changing.
But thinking about that doesn’t stop me from curling my hair or choosing a slightly nicer sweater before walking into town for the Winter Lights Festival.
Ridge Trail or not, I’m not immune to wanting to look pretty when there’s a chance I might see him again.
The festival takes over the whole main street—string lights overhead, a few vendor booths, the smell of hot pretzels and cinnamon sugar drifting through the air.
Kids dart between bonfire pits with paper lanterns; couples stroll hand in hand.
A local cover band warms up on a small wooden stage, tuning guitars and laughing into the cold-bright air.
It’s sweeter and smaller than the New York festivals and street fairs I’m used to. Less curated. More earnest. Real.
I lift my camera and take a few wide shots—nothing fancy, just enough to loosen my muscles, to remind myself this is what I came here for. Not magic kisses under the aurora. Not men with strong hands and steady voices who make my chest tighten in inconvenient ways.
Just art. Light. Beauty.
I’m still mentally lecturing myself when I turn and nearly collide with a warm, solid body.
Strong hands catch my elbows.
“Easy,” Kendrick murmurs.
My breath leaves in a soft rush. “Hi.”
He looks unfairly good in jeans and a dark Henley, jacket open over broad shoulders, hair slightly messed like he ran a hand through it at least a dozen times on his way here.
His cheeks are tinged with wind and cold; his eyes hold that quiet, steady heat I’m starting to recognize as his version of a greeting.
“Didn’t expect to see you this early,” he says.
“You didn’t?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He shakes his head once. “Didn’t figure you’d be up after…” His voice trails off, something unguarded flickering in his gaze. “Last night.”
My heart trips, then does a near-fatal flourish. “Yeah. That.”
His eyes drop briefly to my mouth before he clears his throat. “You, uh—want something to eat?”
I glance at a booth selling fry bread dusted with powdered sugar. “Absolutely.”
We walk that way together, the space between us small but humming, our shoulders brushing once, then twice.
He buys us each a piece of fry bread even though I insist I can pay.
He hands me mine with a soft grunt of acknowledgment, as if pretending he isn’t being thoughtful will disguise the fact that he’s incredibly thoughtful.
We find a spot near one of the bonfires, standing close enough for warmth but not so close we look like… whatever we’re starting to look like.
Kids run past, laughing and scattering snow. A teen hands out sparklers. The cover band starts playing something acoustic and warm, the kind of song you sway to more than dance.
I take a small bite of the fry bread. “This is amazing.”
“Gran used to make it when I was a kid,” he says, watching the flames. “Festival booth here modeled theirs on hers.”
“You had a good childhood,” I say softly. “You talk about it like it mattered.”
He looks down, the firelight flickering across his jaw. “Parts of it.”
There’s a story there—one he’s not ready to tell. I respect that.
We stand in quiet for another moment. Then I feel his gaze on me.
“You cold?” he asks.
“A little.”
He shifts, turning slightly toward me. “C’mere.”
Before I can formulate a coherent argument—or any argument—he steps closer and angles himself so I can stand in the shelter of his body. The move isn’t bold. It’s instinctive, like he didn’t think about it at all.
Heat curls low in my stomach.
The music drifts into something soft and slow, and a few couples step onto the clear space near the fire pit. Their movements sway in and out of the glow, easy and unhurried.
Kendrick’s hand brushes mine. Just a graze.
I swear the whole festival shifts around us.
He doesn’t ask. He just lightly takes my hand in his, thumb sweeping across my knuckles, and nods toward the open space.
“You want to?” he asks quietly.
Yes. God, yes.
But I manage a calm, “Sure.”
He leads me out, and the ground feels solid beneath my boots until he pulls me close. One of his hands settles at my waist—firm, warm through the layers of my coat. My heart stutters like a camera misfiring.
We sway to the music, tiny movements that feel bigger than they are. He smells like cedar smoke and cold air. His breath curls near my temple. Every part of me feels too aware of every part of him.
“You dance at festivals often?” I ask, mostly to keep myself from combusting.
“No.”
“You really like giving one-word answers, don’t you?”
“Depends on the question.”
I tilt my head back to look at him. “And this one?”
He lifts an eyebrow. “I don’t dance with just anyone.”
My pulse leaps. “Oh.”
We move through the song without talking, without needing to. His thumb strokes the back of my waist once, twice—small, steady touches that send warmth up my spine. My hands settle on his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breathing.
When the song ends, he doesn’t let go right away.
Neither do I.
The band starts something upbeat next, and someone bumps into us lightly. Kendrick steps back just enough that my brain can function again.
“You want to get out of here?” he asks, voice low.
My breath catches, but not from surprise. More from knowing exactly what that question means—and knowing I want it more than I should.
I nod.
We barely make it out of the festival boundaries before his hand finds mine again. We walk like we’re both trying not to rush—and failing. My heart’s hammering. His jaw’s tight. The air between us feels charged, like something waiting to be touched.
My cabin isn’t far.
By the time we reach the porch, my breath is warm fog in the cold night air, my pulse throbbing at the base of my throat.
I unlock the door, step inside, turn—
And he’s already there, frame filling the doorway.
I don’t get another word out.
Kendrick cups my jaw in both hands and kisses me like the ridge wasn’t enough, like holding back was overrated, like tonight he wants to feel everything.
I gasp softly against his mouth, my fingers curling into his jacket. He steps forward, pushing the door shut with his boot, and the click of it closing echoes somewhere deep inside me.
We break apart only long enough for him to look at me—really look at me—eyes dark, breath uneven.
“Tell me to go,” he says roughly.
I shake my head. “Stay.”
That’s all it takes.
He kisses me again, deeper, his hands sliding down to my hips as he walks me backward toward the couch. My camera bag hits the floor. My coat goes next. His mouth trails along my jaw, my neck, everywhere I didn’t realize I ached for him to touch.
I tug at his jacket, and he helps me peel it off, our breaths mingling, our bodies close enough that I can feel the steady, building heat rolling between us.
When he lifts me—effortless, sure—and lowers me onto the couch, a soft sound escapes my throat, half want, half disbelief that this is happening, that he is happening.
Kendrick leans over me, one hand braced beside my head, the other tracing the line of my waist with reverence that floors me.
“You sure?” he asks, voice low, eyes fixed on mine.
“More than sure,” I whisper.
And then there’s no space left between us at all.
Kendrick kisses me again—slow at first, savoring, like he’s learning me one breath at a time. His hand slides up my ribcage, fingertips brushing along the edge of my sweater before slipping beneath it in a gliding stroke that sends heat flooding through me.
I arch into his touch, a soft sound escaping before I can stop it. His answering groan vibrates through both of us.
“Emma…” My name sounds different on his tongue. Rougher. Needier. Like he’s been holding onto something for too long.
His mouth trails down my neck, over the slope of my shoulder, his breath warm against my skin. I grab fistfuls of his shirt, pulling him closer, wanting the solid weight of him, the heat, the way he seems to steady me and unravel me at the exact same time.
He pulls my sweater up, giving me enough time to nod before he lifts it over my head. He pauses—not moving, not rushing—just looking at me like he wants to remember this.
My pulse trips hard. “Kendrick…”
He lowers himself slowly, pressing his mouth to the center of my chest, then just beneath my collarbone, then lower. My back arches again as his hands slide down my sides, firm and sure, guiding me deeper into the cushions.
I tug him back up, kissing him with more urgency now. He responds instantly, matching my pace, matching the need building hot and fast between us. His hands explore every curve, every edge, every place that makes my breath hitch.
I reach for the hem of his shirt, and he lifts his arms without question. The fabric slips away, revealing warm, solid muscle and smooth skin. My palms glide over his chest, his shoulders, the strong lines of his back.
He shivers at the touch of my hands.
The sound he makes when I draw him closer again goes straight through me.
We lose ourselves in the moment—each kiss deeper, each touch more deliberate. He eases me down fully onto the couch, his body aligning with mine, braced on one arm while the other explores slowly, reverently, like he’s mapping a place he’s only dreamed about.
“You feel…” He stops, breath breaking a little. “Hell.”
I kiss him again, tugging him closer until his forehead drops to mine. His breathing is uneven, warm against my lips.
“I want you,” I whisper.
His eyes darken, something fierce and tender pulling at the same time. “Emma, if we do this…” His thumb strokes my cheek, slow and careful. “I’m not going to forget it tomorrow.”
My heartbeat stutters.
“Good,” I breathe.
The control he’s been clinging to slips. I feel it in the way he lowers his mouth to mine again, in the way our bodies move together, in the way he touches me like he’s trying to memorize every detail.
By the time he finally thrusts into me, filling me with his cock, it’s too much, yet not enough.
Whatever he’s doing to me, the way he’s turning my whole world upside down, it should be illegal.
He rests his forehead against mine and whispers my name.
It’s impossibly sweet. Impossibly perfect.
Impossibly real.
Every movement is slow and deliberate, paced with a tenderness that breaks me open in the best way.
He’s strong. Careful. Fully present. And the way he presses his forehead to mine, breath catching as we find a steady rhythm together, feels like more than heat.
It’s something neither of us meant to start but can’t pull away from now.
My fingers grip his shoulders, pulling him closer as each pulse of pleasure builds and crests, sharp and sweet and overwhelming. He whispers my name with a roughness that sends me tumbling over the edge.
I pull him with me, our breaths tangling as we come apart together—slow, intense, unmistakably real.
He collapses gently beside me, one arm still wrapped tight around my waist, his chest rising and falling against my back. I feel his lips brush my shoulder once, soft and lingering, before he settles fully.
For a long time, neither of us speaks.
The room is warm. The world is quiet. My heartbeat finally begins to slow.
Kendrick exhales, low and unsteady, like he’s surrendering something he didn’t know he’d been holding.
“You okay?” he murmurs into my hair.
“I’m… yeah,” I say, smiling into the pillow. “You?”
His arm tightens around me. “Ask me again in a minute.”
I laugh, soft and breathless. He buries his face in the curve of my neck, and I feel the smile he doesn’t say out loud.
If I were a smarter woman, I’d be panicking about what this means, about how temporary things are supposed to be, about the fact that I’m leaving soon.
But wrapped in his arms, warm from his touch, the rest of the world feels far away.
For tonight at least, I let myself stay exactly where I am.