The embers of the wood-burning stove glowed low behind the iron grate, throwing amber shadows across the ceiling that danced like something alive. The room smelled of woodsmoke, warm skin, and Pav. A scent she'd first caught on his jacket days ago—smoke and earth, now mixed with sweat, sex, and the faint soapy trace of clean sheets.
His fingers moved through her hair. Long, slow passes from her temple to the ends, unhurried, as if her hair were something he’d been wanting to touch properly and was finally allowing himself the indulgence. Each pass sent tingles cascading down her neck, across her scalp, pooling at the base of her spine.
His hand paused mid-stroke. A fraction of a second—his breathing changing by a degree. Listening. The operator scanning for a sound that didn’t belong to the stove or the settling of the house.
Then his fingers resumed. Whatever he’d heard—or hadn’t heard—was gone.
She pressed her smile into his chest. Even now, he was alert. And somehow, that was the most comforting thing about him. That even in the quietest moments of his life, some part of him still stood watch.
Over her.
“Hey,” she whispered.
His chest lifted beneath her cheek. A breath that might have been a laugh. “Hey.”
“I’m a mess.”
He gathered her hair to one side, his knuckles grazing her neck. “Yes.”
“You’re supposed to disagree.”
He looked down at her. His face was relaxed, the tension in his jaw eased to something she’d never witnessed—not an almost-smile or the ghost of one. As if his muscles had forgotten their default position and found a new one.
“I like mess.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead.
She dropped her forehead against his collarbone and laughed. He pulled the blanket up over her shoulders, tucking it around her, his hand smoothing the wool along her arm.
The room dimmed as the last flame guttered, the light reduced to coal-glow—deep orange and edge-blurring, turning everything to warm stone.
His pulse was regular beneath her ear. Except there was a difference now. This was what his heartbeat sounded like when he wasn’t fighting anything.
“We didn’t get to the border in time.”
A low grunt vibrated through his chest.
“Fox will be losing his mind.”
“He’ll wait.” His thumb traced along her shoulder. “He’ll be pissed. But he’ll wait.”
“He won’t like it. He’ll be worried.”
He drew her closer by a degree that was barely perceptible and entirely deliberate.
“He knows I’ll take care of you.” He said it simply. Not as a promise. As a fact.
She snuggled closer. “How did he even find you?”
“He broke into my house.”
She raised her head, making eye contact. “He broke into your house?”
“Hmm.” Almost amused. “Brought excellent coffee, though. Luckily, he could still drink it even with a split lip.”
“You hit my uncle?”
“Yes.”
“Hard?”
