I wake up slowly.

The salt lamp is still on, casting a peachy glow across the living room. My mouth is dry. My cheek pressed against Beau's shoulder, and there's a blanket tucked under my chin that I don't remember grabbing.

He's still here.

Still on the couch, still warm and solid beneath me. One of his arms is curled around my back as I'd somehow ended up curled across him. He's watching the window, the darkness of night rolling past.

"You stayed," I murmur, my words slightly scratchy.

Beau looks down at me, the thunder clouds more of a summer storm in the low light. "I stayed."

I blink a few times, pushing up from his chest. Something's changed. I blink again. The couch has shifted slightly from where I'd moved it the night prior—angled more toward the door. Defensive, I realize. As if he'd needed to have both the entrance and the window in his line of sight.

"You moved my furniture?" There's a tiny thread of irritation in my tone.

His lips tip into a tiny smile. "Don't get mad. I left the pillows alone."

The blanket slips down as I sit up. I'm warm, still flushed beneath my skin, but it's bearable. Muted. Like whatever that crackling, sparking heat that was writhing within me has gentled.

Beau stands and heads to the kitchen. I hear the sound of the fridge opening, the crinkle of cellophane.

"I ordered some food," he calls, though his voice is soft. "You want me to heat it up?"

"Cold is fine," I answer. He'd cooked for me at his place, and that had been nice in its own way. But there's something about handing me a bowl of cold, congealed sesame noodles and joining me to eat on the floor that makes my heart skip a beat.

He's taking care of me, I realize. And I know I should stop this. Cut him out of my life before this connection grows any stronger. Because this version of him is dangerous. Not the intimidating stranger from the town hall. Not the sexy mountain man. Not the calm center of the universe within his community. Just... mine. In my apartment. Eating cold Chinese food in the middle of the night like it's the most normal thing in the world.

When we finish off the slightly soggy dumplings, I fix him with the coolest stare I can muster. It's harder to do than it should be. My body feels too loose, comfortable. With Beau around, it feels like I can breathe again. But I also feel like I'm regaining the control I'd been clinging to all week, like I'm returning to myself. And, like myself, I'm about to cross examine him until he gets spooked and leaves. Nearly ever fiber of me is begging not to do it, but I can't help myself.

"Why are you here?" It sounds more like an accusation than a question, but there's no true heat in my words. They're soft, maybe a little sad. Vulnerable.

Beau waits before he answers. In the muted light, the lines of his face are softer. It's an intimate kind of beauty, the way the shadows play across his jaw, his lips. I've never been in artist, but studying the love affair the darkness has with his face makes me wish I could capture it on paper.

"I've been meaning to check on you," he says quietly, slowly. "I wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do."

He seems sincere, but it's such an irritating non answer that I feel a prickle of annoyance. In the aftermath of crying, leg rubs, and the best sleep I've had in weeks, however, there's no kindling for it to spark into anger. So, instead, I just give him a disbelieving sigh.

"Come on, Beau. Seriously?"

With a hint of a smile, he reaches out to touch my hand. The contact sends a flood of reassurance through me, like the gentleness of his fingers against my skin might erase all of my reservations. "I'm serious. The way I... live. It doesn't leave a lot of room for regular things."

"You mean your summer camp in the boonies?"

"Something like that," he says quietly. There's something else in his tone—in the words he's not saying—that make me wonder if there's more than he's letting on. But he continues before I can press. "I grew up with this life. I can't imagine anything else for myself. But you? A sexy, corporate paralegal? You could have the world. I don't want you to have to sacrifice anything to be with me. And I'm not a casual relationship kind of guy. Not with someone like you."

I nod slowly, trying to imagine what my life would be like out where the road ends. I try to imagine the days where the solar goes out and we're sitting in the dark, taking cold showers... but all I see is coffee on the deck, laughing in candlelight, swimming in the lake. I try to imagine us together, what our fights would be like. What our apologies would be like. The memory of him chopping wood flares so brightly in my mind's eye that, for a heartbeat, I can't think of anything to say because there's a loud, irrational part of me that's begging to tell him that I'd sacrifice anything to have him.

"And, you're a little hard to read, Rhea," he continues. His hands haven't left my mine. In fact, he's started rubbing the little knots of tension I didn't know existed in the base of my thumb, the lines of my forearm... like he knows exactly where I want to be touched. I want to melt, to purr, to lean into him like a cat. "I didn't want to overstep and make any decisions for you."

"I—" I almost start to get defensive. I don't know if it's that his hands are on me, or that I've run out of excuses, but I admit that he's right. "I'm not good at this." I gesture between us with my free hand. "At letting people in. I don't do well with things I can't control."

Beau's eyes are fixed to me, but he doesn't interrupt. He doesn't agree or disagree. So I find myself continuing. "I guess, growing up, I learned it was better to keep a safe distance." I shrug, pausing to stare at the ceiling. "I got tired of getting hurt."

He doesn't say anything right away, but his hands still move against my skin. He switches to my other hand. The quiet stretches on again, not awkward, but full of all the things we haven't yet said aloud.

Then, gently, "I get that."

His voice is lower now, like we've entered some sort of sacred, fragile space where anything louder might demolish it. He pulls me a little closer. The thunder storm gray of his eyes is dark and far away, but he just continues gently easing away tension. Absently, almost.

"I thought I had everything planned out. It wasn't a perfect plan, but it worked. And I'd made peace with it." He stares at me, and the rueful smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Until you showed up at that town hall."

"Sorry," I murmur. "For ruining things."

Beau's smile grows a little more. His eyes crinkle. "You couldn't ruin anything. You just made it a lot harder to pretend I don't want more."

My heart pounds in my chest so strongly that I'm amazed he doesn't hear it. Or at least feel the bounding pulse below his fingers. I'm at a loss, unsure of what to do with this vulnerability in the air between us. Because I realize: I'm not the only one who's had their life flipped inside out over the past few weeks. Maybe Beau has been as prickly and hot and restless as I've been.

"I see what you mean about not a casual relationship kind of guy," I say softly, pulling away from his touch. It makes that tight thread tied to my heart ache, but I need a second to think without his hands on me. I pull my knees to my chest and rest my chin on them, still focused on him. I chew my lip before I admit, "I've only ever been a casual relationship kind of girl."

The smile grows a little sad. He leans back, exhaling through his nose. "I figured."

I suddenly wish things had been different. That I was less like me. Or that my mom could tell me that Beau was the kind of man that was safe to take a chance on. But I know better. No one is safe. Nothing is safe.

"I hate the idea of you being by yourself," he says quietly. "If Crestline really is sending people after you."

After sleeping, the rational part of my brain has regained control of my thoughts. I don't immediately spiral into a panicked imagination. I shrug. "Even if they are," I decide, "it's probably just intimidation. If they actually had me on breach of contract, they would have served me by now. Hughes would have fired me in a heartbeat."

Beau doesn't look convinced. "Intimidation has a funny way of escalating."

The flare of protectiveness makes my heart feel a little gooey. Even so, I can't lean into it. I can't afford to. So I shoot him a look of teasing exasperation. "I don't need you to play body guard."

His jaw clenches. There's a ghost of anger in my chest, too. I bully myself to breathe, to keep my voice calm: "I've been taking care of myself for a long time, Beau."

Something shudders through him. Before I can ask if he's okay, Beau closes the space between us, pulling me sideways into his lap. His arms are a cage around me, but I don't feel trapped. Because he's not restraining me, not forcing me—locked against his chest, Beau is drawing comfort from my proximity.

It's a moment of instinct, but I lay my hand to his rough cheek, against the dark golden stubble. His closes his eyes and leans into my touch. The shuddering, the taut control of his muscles eases with each breath.

"Would you stay with me?" His voice is barely a whisper. "Where it's easier to keep you safe?"

A part of me wants to agree immediately, but his request is ridiculous. Haven't we just outlined the framework of why we won't work? That I wasn't made to live in the woods? That I wasn't made for the kind of relationship he's looking for?

"Beau," I start, my voice tentative.

He doesn't let me pull away. Not this time. He holds his hand over mine, and it sends a wave of wanting straight to the pit of my stomach. His skin is warm, callused. Steady. The kind of touch that says he's not going anywhere unless I ask him to. The kind of touch I want all over my body. The kind of touch that makes me stupid and silly and foolish. That makes me forget why I can't just say yes.

"I can't stay away when you're in trouble," he says before I can continue. There's a hint of a growl in the words. Like he knows I'm fighting myself, and he's doing his best to send in reinforcements to the, 'fuck Beau on the apartment floor,' side.

"It's a good thing I'm not in trouble then," I remind him. "Crestline will lose interest when they realize there's nothing tangible to pounce on. I'll stop poking around the case."

Beau watches me, expression unreadable in the low light. The air between us grows tight, buzzing with the same energy I've been pretending not to feel for weeks. His eyes drop to my mouth, and I feel my breath hitch. My heart stutters in my chest. He pulls my hand away from his cheek to place a perfect, heart melting kiss to my palm. "Girls like you are always trouble, Rhea Dawson."

The sunshine and pine smell of him is overwhelming as the space between us falls away. His forehead brushes mine, nose grazes my cheek. My eyes flutter shut and I'm breathless, waiting. That battle in me between safe independence and needy, hopeless lust defers to his judgement.

But he stops.

I feel the pull of him. I can feel the moment his restraint wins out. Beau exhales slowly, his breath touching my lips as a poor substitute for the kiss that I'm desperately craving. He presses his rough cheek to mine, instead, so that his mouth is right next to my ear. His breath dances along the skin there, sending a current of electricity through me.

"I want to kiss you," he whispers, pressing his lips to the angle of my neck. "But when I do, it's not going to be for just a night."

My chest rises and falls, uneven. It's not really a kiss, but the movement of his mouth, his breath, is almost cruel in its teasing against my skin. Every nerve ending in my body is glowing in anticipation, begging.

I almost whimper as he pulls away, drawing the heat with him.

"When you're ready to take that chance," Beau says, eyes locked to mine, "you tell me."

He leans back against the couch, lets me crawl out of his lap, like he hasn't just completely unraveled me, like I'm not about to beg him to fuck me. Beau simply reaches for his bowl of cold noodles.

It takes a long silence before I feel like my body isn't humming with frustration. I stand and pull some of the blankets with me.

"It's getting late," I say. It makes me realize that I'm still wearing my work clothes, that I've got make up on. "I owe you a shower and a bed to sleep in."

Beau grins, a little rueful, a little wicked. "I think that's a little further than kissing."

"I'm not going to jump you in the shower," I say, a little more frustrated than teasing. "My couch is too small for you."

The little designer sofa is perfect for cuddling, but I can't imagine Beau trying to sleep comfortably squished into it. And I'm not the type of girl who has a guest room, am I? The thought comes a little viciously, edged with a vein of self-loathing.

Beau stands slowly. He looks down at me, contemplative, silent. His stormy eyes are black, unreadable. The silence between us waits.

"I should go," he finally says.

A flare of panic and pain burns from the little tug in my chest. I want to tell him I'm ready, but I know I'm not. But I also don't want to let him go. Because the thought of having him, and losing him, scares me more than I want to admit.

I should nod. Or tell him to stay. I should do something other than look up into his shadowed face and wish I was something different that what I am.

"Okay," I whisper. Because I can't ask him to stay when I'm the one who keeps building walls and dodging feelings and pretending like I'm not completely undone by this man who smells like forests and sunshine.

Beau dips his chin in something that's less than agreement, less than acceptance. For a moment, I think that's going to be the end of it, but he pulls me into his arms again and pressed his lips to the top of my head.

"You don't have to be ready now," he says, voice low. "But I hope you will be."

And then he's gone. The silence threatens to swallow me whole.

Eventually, I move. Deadbolt the door. Strip off my work clothes. Try to wash away the itching, irrational shame that's settled over my shoulders, the shadow of anxiety creeping back towards me from the shadows. I crawl into bed alone, buried beneath blankets and pillows, listening for a knock at the door that never comes.

I dream of summer forests and thunderstorms. Of rough hands and patient mouths. Of free fall. And the terrifying, dangerous truth that Beau makes me feel safe.