Unless something happened. Unless he decided that keeping me safe meant leaving. Unless he's out there right now, convincing himself that disappearing is the noble thing to do.
"Rhett!" I call again, louder this time.
Still nothing.
I'm halfway to the door, my heart in my throat, when it opens.
And there he is.
Shirtless, covered in a sheen of sweat that makes his muscles somehow even more defined, carrying an armload of split logs like they weigh nothing. His hair is damp, his beard has droplets of moisture caught in it, and he's breathing slightly hard from exertion.
He stops when he sees me, his dark eyes widening slightly.
"You're awake," he says.
The relief that floods through me is so intense I actually sway on my feet.
"You're here," I breathe.
"I told you I would be." He carries the logs to the fireplace and starts stacking them. "Did you think I left?"
"Yes. No. Maybe. I don't know." I sink back onto the edge of the bed, my legs suddenly unsteady. "I woke up and you were gone and I thought—"
"I've been up since dawn," he interrupts, still focused on the wood. "Needed to split more logs. The storm brought down some trees, so there's plenty of fuel, but it doesn't split itself."
He's been doing manual labor. Not running away. Not abandoning me. Just... being practical. I should probably feel embarrassed about my panic. Instead, I just feel relieved.
And also very, very aware of the fact that he's half-naked and sweating and the morning light is doing absolutely sinful things to the planes of his chest and stomach.
Stop it, I tell myself firmly. This is not the time.
Except maybe it is the time, because now that I'm looking, I'm noticing things I was too terrified or hypothermic to process before.
He's not just muscular. He's sculpted. Every movement shows the flex and release of muscle groups I didn't know existed. His chest is covered in dark hair that trails down his stomach and disappears into the waistband of his jeans, which are sitting low on his hips, and—
"How are you feeling?" he asks, turning toward me.
I jerk my eyes up to his face. "What?"
"Your injuries. How do they feel this morning?"
"Oh. Um. Sore. But okay. Nothing broken." I hold up my hands, showing him the scraped palms. "These sting, but they're not bad."
He crosses to me in two long strides and takes my hands in his, examining them with a gentleness that doesn't match his size. His hands are rough, calloused, and warm against my skin.
"They're clean," he says. "That's good. I'll put some salve on them after breakfast."
"You have salve?"
"Make it myself. Comfrey and calendula. Good for cuts and bruises."
Of course he makes his own medicinal salve. Is there anything this man can't do?
He's still holding my hands, his thumb brushing absently over my knuckles. I don't think he realizes he's doing it.
"Rhett," I say softly.
"Hmm?"
