A half-second of panic spiked through her before memory caught up. The balcony. The whisky. The kiss. Him carrying her inside.
She released a slow breath, the tight band around her chest loosening one notch at a time. Nothing hurt except the dull achein her ribs. His breathing didn’t change. He was still asleep, curved around her as if he’d been there all night.
She shifted slightly, testing, but his arm stayed loose. No pulling her back. Only the steady rise and fall of his chest against her spine.
Her fingers found his where they rested at her hip. His hand turned beneath hers, palm to palm, fingers threading through hers in his sleep.
The quiet was absolute—thick and insulating. No alarms or emergency. Just snow falling outside and Wyatt breathing behind her. The slow dawn light creeping across the bed.
She let her eyes drift shut and stayed—just for now, before reality caught up.
She lost track of how much time passed before she felt him wake. The shift in his breathing. The slight tension that came back into his muscles before it softened again. He didn’t move for a long moment. Then his hand flexed once at her waist and withdrew.
“Hey, you.” His voice was still gravelly with sleep.
“Hey.”
He rolled away and sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. She turned onto her back as he stood—the pull of his shoulders, the way he ran a hand through his hair. Still in yesterday’s clothes, wrinkled from sleep.
He glanced back at her. “Coffee?”
“God, yes.”
“Give me ten minutes.” He disappeared through the door.
She lay there staring at the ceiling, peace settling in her bones, listening to the creak of the wind outside the house, the rush of a shower down the hall.
He’d gone to the guest room rather than disturb her.
Finally, she pushed herself up. Her body protested—bruised ribs, stiff muscles—but nothing serious. She padded barefootdown the hall in his sister’s flannel, following the rich smell of excellent coffee.
Pink morning light flooded the kitchen. Wyatt stood at the sink, already showered and changed—dark jeans, a navy thermal pushed up at the forearms. Water ran over his hands as he rinsed the French press.
He looked up when she entered, reaching for a towel to dry his hands. “Sleep okay?”
“Better than I have in months.”
His gaze held hers a second too long—long enough that something in it darkened—before he broke it, turning away with a smile and gesturing for her to sit.
She climbed onto a stool. He worked with economical movements, pulling down two mugs and warming them with water from the tap. He poured the coffee. Steam curled between them.
He slid her mug across the counter. Their fingers didn’t touch.
She wrapped both hands around the ceramic and took a sip. Heat and bitterness and exactly what she needed. “You’re very good at this.”
“Practice.” He leaned against the counter opposite her. His forearms braced on the marble—fine dark hair, a scar cutting across his left wrist. She stared longer than necessary.
“Hungry?” he asked.
She started, her gaze flicking up to his.
A smile crooked his mouth. He’d caught her looking.
A knock sounded at the front door.
Wyatt glanced toward the hall. “That’ll be Sarah.”
“The sheriff?” Jen asked.
