Chapter 18 Jesse
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jesse
Wednesday
If you’d told me a week ago that I’d be drinking whiskey in a fishing cabin while a wildfire tried to eat our valley, I would’ve asked what you were smoking and whether you were willing to share.
Especially with our pretty next-door neighbor sitting with us.
But here we are.
The cabin is dim and warm, lit by firelight and a single lamp that’s doing its best. The kind of light that makes everything softer around the edges.
The world could almost be normal if you squint hard enough.
Outside, the wind nudges the trees and the lake slaps gently against the shore, and every now and then the whole place creaks as if it’s reminding us it’s old and stubborn and not impressed with our problems.
Inside, it’s quiet.
Not silence quiet. Abilene is here, and Marshall and Wyatt are here, and men like us don’t do true silence unless we’re bleeding or grieving. But the cabin has settled into almost a truce.
The kids are asleep. The worst of the panic has eased from “we might die tonight” to “we might not,” which is basically the closest thing to peace we’ve had in days.
Marshall sits at the little table with a beer he’s been nursing for an hour. He’s still dressed, ready to sprint outside and fight a fire with his bare hands if the mood struck. Hat off, hair a mess, jaw tight, holding the entire ranch between his teeth.
Wyatt is on the couch, glasses on, legs stretched out, holding a glass of whiskey, trying to convince himself he’s a relaxed person. His leather-bound notebook rests on his thigh because, apparently, he sleeps with that thing just like other people sleep with childhood stuffed animals.
And me?
I’m perched on the arm of the chair because sitting still feels illegal right now. I’ve got a drink in my hand, mostly so it has something to do besides point at problems or reach for the people I shouldn’t be reaching for.
Then there’s Abilene.
She’s in the corner of the couch beside me, wrapped in a blanket that’s probably older than all of us, knees tucked up, trying to fold herself into a smaller shape.
Her hair is down, loose and soft around her shoulders, as if the cabin itself coaxed it free. Firelight dances over her face, and her hazel-green eyes keep catching the light when she looks up, which is unfair. Deeply unfair.
She doesn’t look like the Abilene I’ve known for years. The one behind the market stall with honey jars lined up, the one on her porch with wind chimes and quiet smiles, the one who always seems half a step away from retreating back into her house.
This Abilene looks… raw.
Her defenses are thinner out here, probably because she doesn’t have her routines to hide behind, and because the world has been trying to burn itself down. She’s still shy, still gentle, but there’s a new restlessness under it tonight.
And I feel it.
A live wire stretched between us.
We talk. We sip. We pretend this is normal.
Wyatt tells a story about a goat he once tried to treat for a rash that ended with him running across a pasture holding a bottle of ointment while the goat headbutted him with a personal vendetta.
Abilene laughs.
Marshall grunts at the punchline, which is basically the equivalent of a standing ovation from him.
I throw in commentary because it’s my job. If there’s a moment where the room might fall too quiet and everyone might start thinking about fire and smoke and how close we came to losing things, I fill it.
I toss jokes around like sandbags in front of a flood. And it works.
Mostly.
Until Abilene shifts under the blanket and her knee brushes mine.
Just barely. An accident.
Probably.
Except the contact shoots electricity straight through me. My skin goes hot where she touched, and my brain, which has been doing a decent job of staying functional, suddenly starts to misfire.
Because that simple little brush of her knee sparks desire that’s been simmering for days.
Maybe longer.
I’ve been trying to ignore it since the potluck, since she said she enjoyed being around my kids. The most dangerous sentence she could’ve spoken to me.
Since the way she looked standing on her porch in the storm light. Soft, uncertain, and still somehow intense enough to make my chest do weird things.
Then the evacuation happened.
And she opened her door at 3:17 a.m. with fear in her eyes and her bee pendant clutched in her fist because it was the only anchor she had.
Now we’re here in this cabin, sharing air and space and tension. And my restraint is… fraying.
Abilene tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and glances at me. She can feel the way my attention keeps snagging on her.
Her cheeks are pink from the fire and the warmth and maybe the drink. Her lips are slightly parted. She’s thinking of something she’s not saying.
I swallow hard.
This is the part where I should pull back.
This is the part where I should focus on being a responsible father and a good man, and not the kind of guy who kisses his neighbor in a cabin while the world is literally on fire.
But I’m tired.
I’m tired of holding everything up with jokes and duct tape and sheer willpower. I’m tired of pretending I don’t want things.
Wanting is dangerous. Wanting makes you stupid. Wanting makes you forget that people leave.
Hayley left.
She left when the twins were toddlers, when I was still trying to figure out how to keep tiny humans alive without drowning.
She left because she said she needed more, needed space, needed a life that didn’t smell of hay and diapers and a town where everyone knows your business.
She left, and I learned real quick that the second you lean too hard on someone, they disappear.
So I stopped leaning. I became the guy who “doesn’t need anything,” because needing is how you get hurt.
And Abilene…
Abilene makes me want to need.
That’s the scariest part.
I take a sip of my drink, and it burns all the way down, not because it’s strong, but because my nerves are stretched too tight.
Across from me, Marshall’s eyes flick toward the window again, listening for something in the night.
“You think it’s gonna shift soon?” Wyatt asks quietly.
Marshall’s jaw flexes. “Wind’s been unpredictable.”
Abilene’s fingers tighten around her mug. She glances toward the loft, as if she’s thinking about the kids sleeping there.
“I keep feeling like I should be doing something,” she admits softly. “Like if I’m sitting still, something bad will happen.”
Wyatt’s expression softens. “That’s adrenaline. Your body’s still in survival mode.”
“I don’t like it,” she whispers.
I don’t like it either.
I want to reach across the table, take her hand, and tell her I’ll keep the world from hurting her again, even though I know I can’t promise that.
So instead I say, “If it makes you feel better, I also feel like I should be doing something, but my options are limited. I can’t exactly go punch the fire.”
Abilene’s mouth twitches. “You’d try.”
“Only if it looked at me wrong.”
Wyatt snorts.
Marshall huffs.
Abilene laughs, and it hits me hard. Not because it’s loud. Because it’s real. Because it’s relief.
She looks at me after, eyes warm, and my stomach flips over.
I look away first, because if I don’t, I’m going to do something stupid.
Stupid such as…
Kiss her.
Not a quick, casual kiss either. Not a playful one.
The kind that changes things.
The kind you can’t take back.
The kind you don’t do if you’re planning on being careful.
And I’ve been careful for six years.
Careful is how I kept my kids safe. Careful is how I kept myself standing after Hayley.
Careful is how I survived.
But careful is also lonely.
Abilene shifts again, blanket slipping a little, and her bare shoulder catches the firelight. My gaze lands there before I can stop it.
She notices.
Her breath catches, barely audible, but I hear it anyway because I’m tuned in to her as if she’s a radio signal I can’t ignore.
She draws the blanket up, not defensive exactly. More aware of herself all of a sudden. Her cheeks go pinker.
Marshall’s eyes flick up from his beer at the same time Wyatt’s do. They both caught the shift in the room, even if they didn’t see what caused it.
They can feel the air tighten.
Marshall doesn’t say anything. Of course he doesn’t. He just sets his bottle down with a loud thunk and leans back in his chair, forearms braced on the table, gaze drifting toward the dark window, watching the tree line for embers.
Wyatt adjusts his glasses and clears his throat, the world’s most polite signal flare.
“So,” he says, tone casual in a way that is absolutely not casual. “If the wind stays like this, the crews should be able to hold the line. Maybe.”
“Maybe,” Marshall repeats flatly.
Abilene’s fingers worry the edge of her mug. I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she’s trying to make herself small under that blanket. If she shrinks enough, the fear can’t find her.
Or maybe I can’t find her.
I should move. Get up. Go check on the kids. Throw myself into some kind of useful task to bleed the energy out of my body.
Instead, I sit there, trying to pretend my pulse isn’t pounding too hard, trying to pretend Abilene’s bare shoulder didn’t just flip a switch inside me.
The fire pops in the hearth. The cabin creaks.
Outside, the lake makes a soft sound. It’s trying to remind us there are still things in the world that know how to stay calm.
Abilene’s gaze flicks from Wyatt to Marshall and back again, then lands on me, checking whether I’m okay.
Which is… funny.
Because I’m not. I’m fighting myself so hard I can practically hear the gears grinding.
Her eyes hold mine for a beat, and her expression shifts. Just a faint tremor of uncertainty.
She’s felt the pull between us too, and doesn’t know what to do with it.
I open my mouth, because I’m stupid, and say the first thing that might give her an out.
“You tired, Abilene?”
Her lashes flutter. “I…” she starts, then stops. I guess her brain did the same thing mine did. “Maybe. It’s been… a day.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Wyatt mutters.
Marshall’s mouth twitches.
Abilene’s lips press together. She’s trying not to smile and failing a little.
Then she shifts on the couch, setting her mug down carefully on the coffee table, and that’s when it happens. The sudden, unmistakable flicker of panic across her face.
She sits up straighter.
“Um,” she says, slightly too bright. “I… I need the bathroom.”
Wyatt blinks. “You okay?”
“Yep,” she says quickly. “Totally fine. Just… bathroom.”
I set my drink down on the table with a little too much force, shove a hand through my hair, and stand.
“I’m goin’ to bed,” I mutter.
I don’t even know if the guys are listening to me.
I walk down the hall, the dim light from the living room fading behind me, the air cooler here, darker.
The bathroom door is closed. Light spills out from under it.
I stop a few feet away, heart pounding because I’m about to act crazy.
Because I am.
I should turn around. I should go to bed.
I should…
The bathroom door opens.
Abilene steps out, still wrapped in the blanket, hair mussed. She’s been tugging at it in nervous little motions. She freezes when she sees me in the hallway.
“Jesse,” she whispers.
And that’s it. That’s the last thread of restraint snapping.
I don’t rush her.
I don’t crowd her.
I just step forward slowly, approaching a skittish animal, giving her every chance to step back if she wants to.
Abilene doesn’t step back. Her eyes stay locked on mine.
Her breathing changes. Shallower, faster.
“Why are you here?” she asks.
Because I can’t stop thinking about you.
Because you looked at me like you were asking for something you don’t know how to ask for.
Because I’m tired of being lonely.
Because I want.
But the truth feels too sharp to say out loud, like it might cut us both.
“Because I can’t hold back,” I admit. “Not tonight.”
Abilene’s lips part. Her fingers tighten in the blanket, knuckles pale.
“That’s… dangerous,” she whispers, reminding both of us.
“I know.” I take another slow step, stopping close enough that the heat of her body brushes mine through the blanket.
Her throat moves as she swallows.
She looks up at me with those hazel-green eyes, all soft edges and hidden steel, and she whispers, barely audible…
“Jesse…”
My hand lifts slowly, and I tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, fingers grazing her cheek.
Abilene shivers.
And the sound she makes, quiet, involuntary, unravels me completely.
I lean in, giving her time, giving her space, watching her face for any sign of hesitation.
She doesn’t move away. She tilts up instead, meeting me halfway.
So I kiss her.
In the dim hallway of a fishing cabin while my kids sleep upstairs and the world outside still threatens to burn, I kiss my quiet, brave, honey-sweet neighbor because I’ve been starving for it.
Abilene makes a soft sound and grips my shirt through the blanket, and the kiss deepens before I can stop it, before I can think, before I can make this complicated.
Her lips are warm.
And I swear right there in that hallway, with her in my arms and her breath tangled with mine, the only thing I know is this:
I don’t want to let her go.