The storm had no intention of letting us rest. Rain drummed against the car roof in a relentless rhythm, rattling windows and washing the world in silver. We'd pulled off the highway into the skeletal remains of an abandoned cabin, the kind of place humans left behind when life moved on. Its walls were warped, windows cracked, but inside, the air was warmer than the chill outside.
Travis shut the engine off, and the sudden silence made my ears ache. He leaned back in his seat, one arm draped casually over the steering wheel, the other brushing against mine. That small touch, accidental or deliberate, made the fine hairs on my arms stand on end.
"You always tense like that?" he asked softly, eyes scanning mine, a playful lilt in his voice.
I lifted an eyebrow. "Always tense? I'm not tense. I'm… alert."
He grinned, not buying it. "Alert's code for 'ready to bite anyone who breathes wrong.' Admit it."
I smirked despite myself. "Maybe. But if anyone's going to survive the night, it'll be me."
"Lucky for me, you're letting me stick around," he said, brushing a damp strand of hair from my face. The motion was gentle, intimate, and my pulse betrayed me.
We stepped inside the cabin, water dripping from our coats. The floorboards groaned underfoot, the walls whispering with age, but it was ours for the night. The storm outside painted the room in rhythm, each flash of lightning outlining him in sharp, almost unreal relief—blonde hair plastered to his forehead, pale eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.
I leaned against the wall, trying to regain composure. "You're ridiculous," I said, voice low, but my fingers itched to brush against him.
"Maybe," he replied, stepping closer, the faint scent of him—smoky, familiar, intoxicating—filling the air. "Or maybe I just know exactly what effect I have."
The heat of his body was magnetic. I should have resisted, reminded myself that touch was dangerous, that desire was a liability when hunters were out there. But his hand found mine, fingers intertwining with ease, and suddenly it didn't feel like a mistake—it felt like survival.
His thumb traced slow patterns over the back of my hand, teasing, deliberate. "You know," he murmured, voice husky, "you're not as invincible as you think."
I tilted my head, meeting his gaze. "And you're not as charming as you think."
He smirked. "You're fun to argue with."
And then, slowly, deliberately, he closed the distance between us. His lips brushed mine—a teasing graze, testing, soft. My knees threatened to buckle, though I refused to show it. I caught him by the shoulders, pushing lightly, just enough to make him laugh.
"Not in a parking lot," I muttered, though the sting of his smile against my lips made my pulse spike.
"Noted," he said, but he didn't retreat. He pressed again, slower this time, deliberate, letting his lips linger. My defenses crumbled, piece by piece. The knife in my jacket felt suddenly unnecessary; all danger seemed distant, insignificant compared to this.
Hands moved with tentative precision—his across my back, mine threading through his damp hair. I traced the line of his jaw, memorizing him in the quiet storm.
"Gods, you're infuriating," I whispered.
He laughed softly against my neck, teeth grazing skin, sending shivers down my spine. "I know," he admitted, the word a caress. "And you love it."
I smirked despite myself, pressing closer. "Don't get used to it."
"I don't plan to," he said, eyes glinting, pale and dangerous. "But tonight… tonight I think I might."
The storm outside roared, but inside, there was only us. Fingers explored, breaths mingled, and the small, playful touches evolved into something slower, more intimate. There were no words necessary—just the heat of skin against skin, the tentative brush of teeth, whispered murmurs that hovered between laughter and desire.
He kissed me with the careful patience of someone who knew the value of restraint. Every movement, every touch, spoke of trust and hunger, of boundaries understood and tested. My hands memorized the planes of him—the tension of muscle, the warmth of skin beneath wet clothes, the pulse that raced beneath my fingertips.
At one point, I pulled back slightly, catching my breath, chest heaving. "Travis… we shouldn't—"
"Shouldn't?" he murmured, brushing my hair back, lips grazing my temple. "Everything we do is a risk. But that doesn't mean we can't… enjoy it."
The night stretched, slow and deliberate. Moments lingered—the feel of his hands, the curve of his smile, the quiet laughter we shared when a flash of lightning lit the room in white. I had never felt so alive, so entirely caught between danger and desire.
Eventually, the storm softened, rain turning to mist. We sat tangled together on the worn floorboards, breathless, hearts pounding. Silence wasn't empty—it was full of shared warmth, of the quiet acknowledgment that what we had here, in this fragile, stolen night, was rare.
Travis's head rested against mine. "Hunters will be back," he whispered. "But for now… I don't care."
I nodded, letting the words settle. "For now, neither do I."
And for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe that surviving could include moments like this: dangerous, fleeting, intoxicating.