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“Then I guess you'll have to stay and see.”

The words are casual, teasing, but something about the way he says them catches me off guard. I turn back to the cupboard before he can see the smile tugging at my mouth.

“I'm holding you to a dinner, Reznik.”

“You can hold me to anything you want. My schedule is open—well, except Friday. I have plans with a woman who thinks I’m…” He pauses. “Yeah, I won’t butcher that pronunciation.”

“Well, come on, then. Let’s wander around,” I say, sliding out from between the island and him.

“Yes, let’s.”

We move through the house together, discovering rooms as we go. The bedrooms are tucked away from the main living space, each with soft linens, warm timber, and tall windows framing the mountains. I stop in one, drawn to the view, and stand looking out over the valley.

“Imagine waking up to that every morning,” I murmur.

He comes up behind me, his arms settling around my waist. I lean into him without thinking, resting my hands over his.

“Not a bad view,” he says.

I glance back at him. “You mean the mountains?”

“Among other things.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling when I turn back toward the window. His chin brushes my temple, and for a few seconds neither of us says anything. We don’t need to. The silence feels comfortable, not like something we have to fill.

That’s what catches me off guard: how easily I settle against him, how little effort it takes to forget the rest of the world—or time and distance, for that matter—when his arms are around me. I want to enjoy it without dissecting every feeling until I find a reason.

He kisses my forehead, then lets me go, though his fingers trail along mine before we separate.

I turn before he can see the effect that small gesture has on me. I’ve spent too much of my life trying to anticipate what other people want from me, trying to be the version of myself least likely to disappoint them. With Rez, I don’t feel that same pressure. He seems to like me best when I’m laughing, arguing with him, or threatening to dump melted snow over his head.

It’s a relief. And perhaps a little frightening, how much I want to believe it can be this easy.

We continue down the hallway, and I find myself brushing my hand against his whenever we walk close enough. Sometimes he catches my fingers. Sometimes he hooks an arm around my shoulders and pulls me against his side. Each time, I let him, because I want that closeness just as badly.

The bathrooms are finished in pale stone and warm wood, with deep showers and simple, beautiful fixtures. I inspect the shower in one of them, then glance at him.

“This could be a problem.”

He raises an eyebrow. “The shower?”

“What if I get snowed in here and have to use it?”

His gaze drops to my mouth. “Is that a problem, fancy?”

Heat rises in my cheeks even though I was the one who opened that door. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“I have a few ideas.”

“Of course you do.”

He laughs, low and warm, and reaches for my hand before I can retreat. He brings my knuckles to his mouth, kisses them, and looks at me as if he has all the time in the world.

I want to kiss him. The urge is immediate, uncomplicated, and entirely at odds with how carefully I’ve been trying to take things. But he made the first move at the café. I could lean forward and do it. He’d meet me halfway; I know he would.

Instead, I squeeze his hand and tug him back toward the main room.

“Come on. I want to see the rest.”