Unzipping her bag, I pull out a pair of jeans, a soft green t-shirt, and underwear. "Here," I say, holding them out to her. "Get dressed before I'm tempted to keep you naked all day."
The flush that spreads across her cheeks and down her neck is fascinating. She takes the clothes from me, her fingers brushing mine in a way that feels deliberate.
"No peeking," she says with a hint of her usual mischief as she drops her towel and heads into the bedroom.
I don't listen, of course. I follow her, leaning against the doorframe as she slides simple cotton panties up her legs. The sight of her makes me ache in ways that have nothing to do with sex and everything to do with how much I want to keep her, to make her mine in every way that matters.
She catches me watching and raises an eyebrow. "Didn't I say no peeking?"
"I'm terrible at following rules," I tell her, crossing the room in three long strides. "Especially when you look like that."
Hands on her waist, I pull her against me, and her arms come up around my neck.
"We're going to be late for breakfast," she murmurs against my lips.
"They'll wait," I assure her before capturing her mouth in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly turns desperate.
Her body arches into mine and I walk her backward until her legs hit the bed, then follow her down, my weight pressing her into the mattress. Her legs part for me, and I settle between them, the rough denim of my jeans dragging against her underwear.
"Sebastian," she breathes, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
"I know," I say, understanding exactly what she needs because I need it too—this connection, this reminder that we're alive and together despite all the pain and loss.
I make quick work of my jeans, shoving them down just enough to free myself. Then I shove her underwear aside and push inside her. Both of us gasp at the sensation. There's no teasing this time, no slow build-up. Just the desperate drive to be as close as possible, to lose ourselves in each other.
After, when we're both breathing hard and my forehead is pressed against hers, she laughs—a small, breathless sound that makes my heart stumble.
"We really are going to be late now," she says, pushing playfully at my shoulder.
I roll off her, tucking myself back into my jeans. "Worth it."
This time she does get dressed, and I watch her transform from the vulnerable, naked woman in my bed to the put-together doctor I first met at Sierra Mercy. Except she's not that same woman anymore. There's a softness to her now, a quiet sadness around her eyes that wasn't there before. But there's something else too, a steadiness, a certainty when she looks at me that makes my chest tight.
We finally leave the cabin, hand in hand, following the dirt path toward the main house. The morning has warmed slightly, but there's still a crispness to the air that's distinctly Montana.
"Over there is where Bradley broke his arm jumping off the roof," I tell her, pointing to a small outbuilding. "He was trying to prove he could fly if he just believed hard enough."
"Did you push him?" she asks, squeezing my hand.
"Absolutely not. I was the responsible one holding the umbrella he was using as a parachute."
Bright and unexpected, her laughter carries across the yard.
"And that's the barn where I hid all my medical textbooks," I continue, nodding toward the old structure in the distance. "Dad thought I was out there mucking stalls. Actually spent most of my time studying anatomy instead of cleaning up horse shit."
"Rebel," she teases, bumping her shoulder against my arm.
As we approach the main house, my steps slow. The farmhouse looms before us, familiar and foreign all at once. Light spills from the windows, and I can hear the murmur of voices inside, smell bacon and coffee in the air.
Suddenly unsure, my hand pauses on the doorframe. Despite the progress I've made with my family over the past few months—coming back in small doses when Dad got sick—I still feel like an outsider. The prodigal son who left without saying goodbye, who returns only when it's convenient.
Mia's hand tightens around mine. When I look down at her, her eyes are soft with understanding.
"Hey," she says quietly. "You okay?"
I swallow hard, surprised by the sudden tightness in my throat. "Yeah. Just... it's complicated."
Her thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. "Families usually are."
