That night, I awoke to find Amelia pressed close against me, her breath warm against my neck. For a second, I lay still, unsure if I was dreaming. Then the reality of her weight against my side hit me, sending a rush of butterflies through my stomach.
Careful not to startle her, I slipped my hand to her waist. It didn't feel strange. If anything, it felt natural — like this was where she was meant to be. She shifted slightly, murmuring in her sleep, and tucked her arm around me.
"Are you awake?" I whispered.
Her lips curved into the faintest smile without opening her eyes. "M-hm."
"How are you feeling?"
"Good," she breathed, pulling me closer.
I bent my head and inhaled her hair — it smelled faintly of strawberries, fresh and sweet against the smoky air of the cabin. My fingers found their way into the soft waves, stroking gently.
"Your hair's beautiful," I said before I could stop myself. "It's so soft, and the colors are so rich."
Her giggle was quiet, playful. "Yours is too," she teased, slipping her hand up to touch the curls on the side of my head.
I laughed under my breath. My hair had always been thick, wiry, cropped short to keep the curls in line —nothing worth remarking on.
But the way she said it made my chest tighten, like she meant more than the words.
When I brushed the back of my hand along her cheek, she lifted her eyes to mine.
Bathed in the faint red glow of the fire's embers, she looked… breathtaking. Not just beautiful, but open in a way she hadn't been before.
I leaned in slowly, giving her space to turn away if she wanted. But she didn't. She held my gaze, lips parting just slightly.
The first touch of her mouth against mine was soft, tentative, like a question neither of us had dared to ask until now. Then, when she didn't pull back, I deepened the kiss, coaxing her gently. Her gasp sent a shiver down my spine, and then her arms tightened around me, kissing me back with a hunger that caught me off guard.
Everything else — her past, the storm outside, the weight of the scandal — faded. There was only the warmth of her lips, the taste of her breath, the way she melted into me.
When we finally broke apart, it felt wrong — like something perfect had been interrupted, not ended. She rested her forehead against mine, eyes still closed.
"I've wanted to do that since the first day I saw you," she whispered.
My heart skipped. "Really?"
She smiled faintly. "You're full of surprises. I thought I was going to have to make the first move."
I chuckled, a little embarrassed. "I thought about it. A lot. Just didn't know how."
"You did just fine," she murmured, fingers brushing the back of my neck.
Her words sank deeper than the fire's heat, loosening something I hadn't realized I'd been holding in.
For a while, we lay there in a silence that wasn't heavy or awkward — it was full. Full of something new, fragile but real, blooming in the quiet.
After a long pause, she shifted, her voice low. "I don't usually let people in this easily."
I looked at her carefully. "Why me, then?"
She hesitated, then shrugged. "You're not trying to impress me. You're just… you. Honest. Kind."
The words hit me harder than I expected. No one had ever described me like that before.
"I like being with you," I admitted. "I feel like I can breathe."
She didn't answer, but she slid her hand into mine, holding on. And in that moment, with the storm raging outside and the fire reduced to glowing embers, I realized something I hadn't dared to before.
We weren't just two strangers thrown together by chance.
We were two people who had both been running — from noise, from expectations, from pasts that weighed too heavy. And maybe, just maybe, we'd finally stopped running.