Updated Apr 11, 2026 • ~8 min read
Chapter 13: Careful
Jackson
We’re careful.
That’s what I tell myself over the next two days as we navigate this new dynamic we’ve created, this agreement that’s supposed to be simple and physical but feels like anything but.
We’re still sleeping separately—her in the bed, me in my chair that I’ve slept in more nights than not over the past five years. We haven’t crossed that final line yet, haven’t followed through on the arrangement we made, and I’m not entirely sure if it’s because we’re being cautious or because we both know that once we do, there’s no pretending this is just physical anymore.
But the kissing happens.
A lot.
She’ll be cooking breakfast, and I’ll come up behind her to add wood to the stove, and our hands will brush and suddenly I’m turning her around and pressing her against the counter and kissing her like I’m starving for it. She’ll be reading by the fire, and I’ll sit down in my chair, and she’ll look up at me with those gray-blue eyes and I’ll be pulling her into my lap and tasting her mouth like it’s the only thing keeping me alive.
Sometimes the kisses are slow and deep, explorations that leave us both breathless and aching. Sometimes they’re desperate and hungry, all teeth and tongue and barely controlled desire. Sometimes they’re soft and sweet, almost tender, and those are the ones that scare me the most because they feel like promises we’ve both agreed not to make.
The sexual tension is through the roof.
It’s constant, unavoidable, a living thing that pulses between us every moment of every day. This cabin is too small for two people who want each other this badly—every time we move, we’re brushing past each other, touching, making contact that sends electricity racing through my veins. Every time she bends over to tend the fire or reaches up to grab something from a shelf, I’m watching the way her body moves and imagining what it would feel like beneath me.
It’s torture.
Sweet, exquisite torture.
I’m in my chair, supposedly reading a book about wilderness survival that I’ve read a dozen times, but really I’m watching her. She’s sitting on the floor by the fire, playing with Bear, and the wolf-dog is eating up her attention like he’s been starved for it his entire life. She’s laughing at something—probably the way Bear keeps trying to steal her hair tie—and the sound fills the cabin with warmth that has nothing to do with the fire.
She fits here.
The thought hits me out of nowhere, unwelcome and undeniable. She fits in this space, in this life, in a way I never expected. When she first arrived, she was so obviously out of her element, so clearly a city girl trying to survive something she didn’t understand. But now, after almost two weeks, she moves through the cabin with confidence, tends the fire like she’s been doing it her whole life, cooks meals that are actually good, talks to Bear like they’re old friends.
She’s not a guest anymore. She’s not an intrusion.
She’s… part of this. Part of my life. Part of my carefully constructed sanctuary.
And that’s a dangerous thought.
Because in a few days—maybe less if the weather clears—she’s going to leave, and this cabin is going to feel empty in a way it never has before. Bear is going to miss her. I’m going to miss her. And I’m going to have to figure out how to go back to the solitude I chose without remembering the way she filled this space with her presence, her laughter, her light.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks, and I realize she’s caught me staring.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.” She grins, standing and moving toward me with that unconscious grace that makes my breath catch. “You’ve been staring at me for the last ten minutes with this look on your face.”
“What look?”
“I don’t know. Intense. Like you’re trying to figure something out.” She stops in front of my chair, looking down at me with curiosity and heat in her eyes. “So what are you trying to figure out?”
You, I think. How you managed to get under my skin in less than two weeks. How I’m supposed to let you go when every instinct I have is screaming at me to find a way to make you stay.
But I don’t say any of that. Instead I say, “How someone who nearly died of hypothermia less than two weeks ago can look so comfortable in a cabin with no running water.”
“I had a good teacher.” She smiles, soft and genuine. “Someone very patient who taught me how to survive despite my complete incompetence.”
“You’re not incompetent anymore.” It’s true. She can start a fire, cook over the stove, chop kindling (not full logs yet, but we’re working on it), ration water, even process small game. She’s learned faster than I expected, adapted better than I thought possible. “You’re actually kind of impressive.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “Did you just give me a compliment?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late. I’m already recording it in my memory as a momentous occasion.” She’s laughing, and then she’s climbing into my lap like she has every right to be there, straddling my thighs and wrapping her arms around my neck. “Jackson Torres thinks I’m impressive. Alert the media.”
“The media has no jurisdiction out here,” I mutter, but my hands are already settling on her hips, pulling her closer.
“Good. Then I have you all to myself.” She kisses me, soft and sweet, and I sink into it with a groan.
This is what we’ve been doing for two days—stealing kisses, touching each other, building the heat higher and higher without actually doing anything about it. It’s maddening and perfect and completely unsustainable, and we both know it.
When she pulls back, her eyes are dark and her breathing is unsteady. “You know we can’t keep doing this forever, right?”
“Define forever.”
“You know what I mean. We made an agreement. About being physical. But we keep stopping before we actually…” She trails off, and I can see the flush rising in her cheeks.
“Before we actually have sex,” I finish, and she nods.
“Why are we waiting?” she asks quietly. “Is it because you don’t want to? Because if you’ve changed your mind about the arrangement—”
“I haven’t changed my mind.” I cut her off, one hand coming up to cup her face. “Trust me, I want this. Want you. So much it’s driving me crazy.”
“Then why—”
“Because once we cross that line, everything changes. You know that, right? No matter what we tell ourselves about it being just physical, once we’re intimate like that, it’s going to mean something. And when you leave…” I let the sentence hang unfinished.
“When I leave, it’s going to hurt,” she finishes softly. “You’re trying to protect us both.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s very noble of you.” She kisses me again, deeper this time. “But I don’t want noble. I want you. All of you. Even if it’s only for a few more days.”
“Sloane—”
“I know it’s going to hurt,” she whispers against my mouth. “I know leaving you is going to break something inside me. But having these few days with you is worth the pain. I’d rather have this, have you, temporarily than not have you at all.”
God, she’s killing me.
“You’re sure?” I ask, even though I can feel my resolve crumbling.
“I’m sure.” She pulls back to look at me, and there’s no hesitation in her eyes, no doubt. “I want this. I want you. I want whatever time we have left.”
I search her face, looking for any sign of uncertainty, but all I see is want and certainty and something deeper that neither of us is ready to name.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Okay.”
She smiles, bright and beautiful, and kisses me again, and I let myself get lost in it—in her, in this moment, in the fantasy that maybe this doesn’t have to end.
We don’t have sex that night either.
But I pull her into my bed for the first time, and we sleep tangled together, and it feels more intimate than anything I’ve done in years. She fits perfectly against me, her back to my chest, my arm wrapped around her waist, and I bury my face in her hair and breathe in the scent of her and try not to think about how right this feels.
How much I’m going to miss this when she’s gone.
Bear settles down at the foot of the bed—traitor—and the three of us sleep like that, a makeshift family in a cabin in the wilderness, and for the first time in five years, I don’t have nightmares.
I dream of her instead.
And when I wake up to find her still in my arms, still here, still real, I let myself have one more moment of pretending that this could last.
That maybe, somehow, we could find a way to make this work.
But morning comes, and with it reality.
She’s leaving soon. Going back to her life in New York. And I’m staying here, in the mountains, in the solitude I chose.
That’s the deal.
That’s what we agreed to.
And no amount of wanting is going to change it.
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