(A Romantic Escape to the Mountains – but not from each other)
The car curved up the winding mountain road in silence.
Fog rolled low across the valley below, soft and ominous. The trees stood like sentinels in the dusk, branches heavy with early spring bloom. In the passenger seat, Serena watched the clouds swallow the world behind them. As if leaving the city meant leaving the past.
But the man beside her made forgetting impossible.
Damon drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, his fingers drumming against the leather. Every so often, his gaze flicked sideways to her—brief, unreadable. She could feel the questions in him, the ones neither of them had asked in years.
This wasn't a vacation.
It was a retreat.
From the noise. From the weight. From the dangerous memory of a kiss that had never happened… and the deeper danger of the ones that had.
"Is this your place?" she asked finally, her voice breaking the quiet.
His jaw clenched slightly before he answered. "Used to be. Before everything got louder."
She looked out the window again. "It's quiet now."
"Not inside me," he said.
Serena turned her head slowly to face him.
Their eyes met.
And just like that—she couldn't breathe.
Because in his gaze she saw everything he'd never said. Every apology. Every ache. Every almost that still haunted them both.
Why did you wait so long to come back to me?
The question lodged in her throat.
Instead, she asked, "Why here?"
He gave a small shrug. "Because when I used to come here… I forgot how to be angry."
She smiled softly. "Maybe I'll like this version of you."
He shot her a glance. "Maybe I don't deserve that version anymore."
And just like that, the silence returned.
But this one wasn't empty.
It was filled with them.
---
The cabin wasn't small. Of course it wouldn't be—nothing Damon owned was modest. Wood and stone stretched into high beams above them, with windows that opened into mist-kissed forests. A fireplace already crackled in the corner, warm and rich. The scent of pine and smoke hung in the air like an invitation.
Serena stood in the center of the room, taking it all in.
Damon didn't speak. He just watched her. Quiet. Reverent.
As if this was the first time he'd seen her without armor.
She wrapped her arms around herself, turning slowly to face him.
"I don't want to talk about the past tonight," she said.
He raised an eyebrow, stepping forward. "Then what do you want?"
Her heart pounded. "Something real. Even if it's temporary."
His eyes darkened.
And in that moment, the air between them changed.
Slower. Heavier.
He stepped closer, stopping just in front of her. His fingers brushed the sleeve of her sweater. He didn't take her hand—just touched. Testing.
"I'm not the same man I was," he murmured.
"I know," she whispered.
"You're not the same girl."
She smiled. "You're right. I'm not."
And still…
He didn't move.
So she did.
Serena stepped forward, closing the last breath of space between them, placing her palm over his heart.
It beat wildly under her touch.
"I came here to find something," she said, voice quiet.
"What?" he asked, rough.
"The truth," she whispered. "About what we could've been… if we hadn't been so afraid."
He closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose. "You don't know what you're asking for."
She leaned up on her toes, lips close to his ear. "Then show me."
His control shattered.
In a blink, he pulled her against him—one arm around her back, the other cradling her neck—and kissed her.
Not soft.
Not hesitant.
But with the full weight of every moment they had denied themselves.
Her fingers gripped his shirt, anchoring herself as his mouth moved over hers with years of hunger. When he kissed, Damon didn't pretend. He didn't play games. He meant it. Every press of his lips was a confession. A reckoning.
When they finally broke apart, their foreheads pressed together, breathless.
"I'm still dangerous," he whispered.
"So am I," she breathed back.
And that night, in the middle of nowhere, with no past and no future—only now—they let go of the lines they'd drawn.
Not recklessly.
Not desperately.
But with reverence.
They undressed each other like unwrapping something sacred—his fingers trembling as he pulled her sweater over her head, her breath catching as she unbuttoned his shirt. Every scar she touched, he didn't flinch. Every curve he kissed, she worshipped.
And when they lay tangled in firelight and bare skin, it wasn't lust that moved between them.
It was memory.
Desire.
Love that never dared speak itself aloud—but finally, finally felt.
---
Hours later, as the snow began to fall, Serena traced her fingers along Damon's chest, her voice barely a whisper.
"You were wrong, you know."
He looked down at her, sleepy, quiet. "About what?"
She pressed a kiss to his jaw.
"You don't ruin things," she said. "You just forget you're allowed to want them."
He didn't answer.
But the way he held her tighter told her he'd heard.