The scent of woodsmoke caught my attention when I stepped back into the main room. Arthur was good at many things, that much was obvious. And I was going to have to figure out how to survive being this aware of him without losing my mind.
Later.
I would deal with that later.
The fire wasn’t roaring, just steady and warm, like someone had built it with intention instead of flair. The kind of fire you trusted. The cabin felt even smaller now. Or maybe I was more aware of it. One room. One couch. One table. One man standing a little too close to the fire, sleeves pushed up, so handsome it should have been illegal.
I tugged the robe tighter around me and immediately told myself to stop doing that. I was not a Victorian orphan. I was a grown woman. I could handle standing around in a robe.
Arthur turned when he heard me.
I watched his attention land on me in slow motion. His focus sharpened, then very deliberately softened, like he was choosing calm on purpose—for me.
My hair was still damp. I could feel it cooling against my neck. The robe gaped just enough when I moved to remind me that I wasn’t wearing anything underneath it. My legs were bare. Crap, I hadn’t thought this through.
Arthur definitely had.
He didn’t stare, but he also didn’t look away too fast. His gaze tracked, assessed, then settled somewhere respectful. He had a very controlled expression on his face, like it cost him something, and that gave me alittle thrill.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said quickly. “I mean. I will be. Eventually. Heat is a process.”
“Here,” he said, reaching for a folded blanket draped over the back of the couch. He stepped closer and lifted it, then paused. “May I?”
I nodded, because my ability to form coherent sentences had temporarily left the building.
He draped the blanket over my shoulders carefully. His hands brushed the fabric, then hovered there for half a second longer than necessary.
I felt it.
The pause. The restraint. The very clear decision not to touch me more than he already was. His hands stilled, then withdrew like he was stepping back from the edge of a very high cliff.
Neither of us said a word.
I moved to sit near the fire before my mouth could betray me. The floor was warm from the hearth. I tucked my feet under the blanket and stared at the flames like they were suddenly very interesting.
Arthur knelt to adjust the logs.
The space was small enough that his knee brushed mine.
It was accidental.
We both froze anyway.
He went perfectly still, like he was afraid to startle me. I wentequally rigid, every nerve lighting up at once. My brain short-circuited betweenToo MuchandNot Enough.
He shifted back a fraction of an inch, giving me space without asking. I exhaled slowly and forced my shoulders to relax. The fire popped softly as Arthur stood and cleared his throat.
“I’m going to heat up some soup,” he said, already moving toward the tiny kitchenette like this was a completely normal interaction and not emotionally catastrophic. “It should help.”
“That would be great,” I said. “Soup is soothing. According to science.”
He accepted that nonsense without question and gave me my space.
The moment he turned away, I pressed my palms into my thighs and stared at the fire.
Get it together, Artie.
