The cabin door clicks shut behind us, cutting off the wind. Jenna and Marcus are already arguing over who gets the first shower, their voices muffled by the walls, a rhythm of familiar chaos that I barely register. Liam's hand finds my wrist—cold from the lake, from the air—and he pulls me past the hallway, past the kitchen, toward the hearth where the fire is still burning low, embers shifting in the grate.
He stops. Turns to face me. The light catches his hair, the mess of it, the way it falls across his forehead. His pale blue eyes are dark in the low glow, shadowed, unreadable. He doesn't say anything. Just looks at me like he's memorizing something, like if he blinks I'll be gone.
I feel the key in my pocket. Warm. The same warmth from this morning, from every time I've held it. My fingers find it without thinking, press against the metal until it bites.
His thumb finds the inside of my wrist. The same spot from this morning, from the lake, from every quiet moment between us. He presses there, feeling my pulse, and I feel the weight of the whole week pressing down on us—the frozen lake, the pancakes, the laughter, the way he said I want to choose you—asking what we're going to do with it.
"What?" I whisper.
He shakes his head. A small smile, almost hidden. "Nothing. Just—" He stops. Looks at my mouth. "Just want to look at you."
My chest tightens. I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything. I let him look. Let the fire warm my back while his hands stay cold on my skin, and I think: this is real. This is mine.
"You two coming?" Jenna's voice cuts through, muffled but insistent. "I'm making pasta and I need someone to open the jar because Marcus is useless."
Liam's thumb lingers a second longer, then drops. He takes my hand, laces our fingers together, and pulls me toward the kitchen.
The kitchen is small—a stove that clicks three times before it lights, a sink with a slow drip, a table that barely fits four. Rebecca is already at the counter, chopping an onion, her eyes red. Marcus is leaning against the fridge, beer in hand, watching Jenna argue with the jar of tomato sauce.
"Give it here." Liam's voice is low, easy. He takes the jar, twists once, and the lid pops open. Jenna stares at him like he's performed a miracle.
"I'm keeping you," she says, then glances at me. "Both of you. The whole week."
I laugh, but it comes out quieter than I meant. Liam's hand finds the small of my back, a press of warmth through my sweater, and I lean into him without thinking.
We cook together—Jenna directing, Rebecca chopping, Marcus opening a second beer, Liam and me washing up at the sink, our shoulders brushing. It's ordinary. It's the most ordinary thing I've done in months. And I feel the weight of it, the sweetness of it, like something I'm afraid to hold too tight.
Dinner is loud. Jenna talks about the semester, about a professor who hates her, about a boy she's decided to stop texting. Marcus teases Liam about the lake, about how he couldn't look away from me. Rebecca rolls her eyes but smiles. I eat pasta that's too salty and drink water from a chipped mug, and under the table, Liam's knee presses against mine the whole time.
After, we move to the living room. Jenna finds a deck of cards and teaches us a game that involves a lot of pointing and shouting. I lose every round. I don't care. Liam wins one and looks at me like he's showing off, like a boy who wants to be seen, and I feel something crack open in my chest—warm, terrifying, good.
When Jenna and Marcus start arguing over whose turn it is, I stand. "I'm tired."
Liam looks up. I don't say come with me. I don't have to. He puts the cards down and follows.
Our room is small. The window is cracked open, letting in the cold night air, and the quilt on the bed is thin, patched in places. I sit on the edge of the mattress. Liam closes the door. The click is soft, but it feels final, like we've crossed a threshold the rest of the week can't follow.
He sits beside me. Doesn't touch me. Just waits.
"I want to call my parents," I say. The words come out before I can stop them, like something I've been holding in my mouth all day. "Tonight. But there's no service here."
He nods. "We can drive to town tomorrow. I'll take you."
"I'm scared." The words are smaller now, quieter. "I've never told them about anyone. I don't know how they'll react."
His hand finds mine. Warm. Calloused. "I'll be there."
"What if they hate you?"
"They won't hate me." A pause. "They might be confused. But they won't hate me."
I turn to face him. The moonlight cuts through the window, silver on his skin, on the scar above his eyebrow. He's so beautiful it hurts, and I still don't understand how I get to have this.
"I'll call tomorrow," I say. Like a promise. Like a door I'm stepping through.
He kisses me then. Soft. His hand on my jaw, his thumb tracing my cheekbone, and I feel it—the decision, the weight, the way everything is shifting into something I can't name yet.
The kiss deepens. His tongue finds mine, slow, deliberate, like he's tasting the promise. I press into him, my hands finding his chest, the fabric of his hoodie, the heat beneath it. He pulls me onto his lap, my knees straddling his thighs, and the mattress creaks under us.
His hands slide under my sweater. Cold. My skin jumps. He murmurs something—my name, maybe—and I feel it in my chest, in my stomach, in the way my hips shift closer.
We undress each other slowly, piece by piece, in the dark. His hoodie falls to the floor. My sweater follows. The cold air hits my skin and then his hands are there, warming me, his mouth on my shoulder, on my collarbone, on the space between my breasts.
I push him back onto the bed. He goes easily, his eyes dark, his chest rising fast. I straddle him again, feel him hard against my thigh, and I lean down to kiss him, slow, deep, tasting salt and the faint sweetness of the pasta sauce.
"I want to remember this," I whisper against his mouth. "Every part."
His hand finds the back of my neck. "You will."
I shift, reach down, guide him to me. The tip presses against my wetness, and I pause—just for a second—looking at him, letting him see me. Then I sink down, slow, feeling every inch of him stretch me, fill me, and his breath catches, his hands gripping my hips.
"Fuck, Sofia." His voice is wrecked. I love it.
I move. Slow at first, rolling my hips, finding the rhythm that makes his eyes flutter closed. The moonlight shifts across his face, and I watch him—the way his jaw tenses, the way his hands tighten on my waist, the way he says my name like it's the only word he knows.
Faster now. The bed creaks. My breath comes in gasps. His thumb finds my clit, circles once, and I feel it building—that heat, that pressure, that thing that only he knows how to pull out of me.
"Come for me," he says. Not a command. A request.
And I do. My body clenches around him, my head falls back, and I feel him pulse inside me, feel him follow, his hips bucking up as he groans my name into the dark.
We stay like that for a long time. His hands on my hips. My forehead against his. The sound of our breathing, slowing, syncing.
I slide off him, lie beside him, my head on his chest. His arm wraps around me, pulls the quilt over us.
"Tomorrow," I say. The word feels solid, real.
"Tomorrow." He presses a kiss to my hair.
I close my eyes. My hand finds my pocket on the floor—reaches in, touches the key. I don't bring it to the bed. I leave it there, warm against the fabric, a promise waiting for tomorrow.