The fire had settled into a bed of coals, orange and low, painting the cabin walls in slow-breathing shadows. Maya lay on her back on Cole's bedroll, the wool scratching against her bare thighs, still damp from the snow they'd tracked in hours ago. The dead man's jeans were loose on her hips, the button pressing into her belly when she shifted. His flannel—Cole's flannel, she reminded herself, not the dead man's—hung open at her collar, the fabric warm where it touched her skin.

She could feel him looking at her. Not the way a man looks at a woman he's sizing up, but the way you look at something you're trying to memorize. The weight of it pressed against her cheek, her collarbone, the hollow of her throat.

She turned her head.

Cole sat propped against the wall, one knee bent, his scarred hand resting loose on it. The firelight caught the pale line across his knuckles, the raised tissue that ran from his index finger to the base of his thumb. He wasn't moving. Hadn't moved, maybe, since she'd fallen back onto this bedroll with his hand on her hip and his voice in her ear.

I've got all night.

The words were still there, lodged somewhere beneath her sternum, beating like a second pulse.

"You're staring," she said. Her voice came out rougher than she meant, scraped clean by the hour of silence.

"I'm watching."

"Same thing."

His mouth moved—not quite a smile, not quite anything. "No. Staring is passive. Watching means I'm learning something."

"And what are you learning?"

He didn't answer. His eyes tracked down her body—the open collar of the flannel, the dip of the bedroll where her hip pressed into it, the bare line of her calf where the jeans had ridden up. She felt the look like a hand, like a brand, like something that left a mark even without touching.

"You're not scared," he said finally.

"I told you I was."

"You told me you were scared of what you want. That's different."

Maya pulled herself up onto her elbows. The movement made the flannel slip off one shoulder, and she felt the cold air find her skin, felt his gaze find it too. "You think you know the difference?"

"I know you're not scared of me."

"Maybe I should be."

"Maybe you should." He said it without humor, without deflection. Just a fact, laid flat between them like a tool on a workbench. "But you're not."

The fire popped. A log shifted, sending a spray of sparks up the chimney. Maya watched them die in the dark, then looked back at him.

"What happened to your hand?" she asked.

His eyes cut to his own scarred knuckles, then back to her. "Already told you."

"You told me about the girl. You didn't tell me how you got the scar."

"Same story."

She waited. He didn't offer more.

"You don't talk about it," she said. Not a question.

"I don't talk about most things."

"You talked about the girl."

"That was for you." He said it simply, like it cost him nothing, like it cost him everything. "You needed to know why I buried him."

The dead man. The one at the bottom of the ravine. The one whose clothes she was wearing, whose bedroll she was lying on, whose cabin was keeping them alive while the snow piled against the walls. Maya felt the weight of it settle on her chest, the strangeness of being wrapped in a stranger's life.

"You ever think about him?" she asked.

"Every day."

"Because you buried him?"

"Because I found him." Cole's jaw tightened. "He was somebody. Had a name, a story, people who might be looking for him. And he ended up at the bottom of a ravine with no one to mark where he fell."

"So you marked it."

"Someone had to."

The wind groaned against the door, a long, low sound like something breathing. Maya pulled the flannel closed over her chest, not because she was cold—the fire was warm, and Cole's body heat seemed to fill the space around them—but because she needed something to do with her hands.

"You said everyone deserves a grave," she said.

"They do."

"Do you?"

The question hung in the air between them, sharp-edged and dangerous. Cole's eyes went flat, the winter-blue going gray, and for a moment she thought she'd pushed too far. Then he moved.

He shifted off the wall, the movement slow and deliberate, the way he did everything. He reached out, and she felt his fingers find her jaw—not gripping, not forcing, just resting there, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone.

"That's a question you don't get to ask," he said.

"Why not?"

"Because you're not ready for the answer."

"Try me."

His thumb moved down, along her jaw, stopping at the corner of her mouth. She felt the callus catch on her skin, the rough drag of it sending a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with cold.

"You're brave," he said. "I'll give you that. But bravery and readiness aren't the same thing."

"I've been ready for things you can't imagine."

"I can imagine plenty."

His voice dropped, low and rough, and she felt it in her chest, in her belly, in the place between her thighs that had been aching since he'd pressed her down onto this bedroll. She didn't look away. She wouldn't give him that.

"You think I can't handle it," she said. "You think I'm soft. A city girl who's never had to fight for anything."

"I don't think that."

"Then what do you think?"

He was quiet for a long moment, his thumb still resting at the corner of her mouth, his eyes searching her face like he was reading something written in a language only he understood.

"I think you've been fighting your whole life," he said. "I think you're tired. And I think you're scared that if you stop fighting, even for a second, you'll fall apart."

Maya's breath caught. Not because he was wrong—God, he wasn't wrong—but because he'd said it so plainly, so matter-of-factly, like he'd known it the moment he found her stumbling through the snow. Three days. He'd known her three days, and he'd already peeled her open to the bone.

"That's a hell of a thing to say to someone," she managed.

"It's the truth."

"You don't even know me."

"I know you didn't take the trail to town." His thumb traced the corner of her mouth again, slow, deliberate. "I know you asked to stay. I know you're lying on my bedroll wearing a dead man's jeans, and you haven't tried to leave once."

"There's a blizzard outside."

"There was a window." His eyes held hers, winter-blue and unblinking. "You could've gone during it. You didn't."

The fire cracked. A log settled, sending a shower of sparks spiraling up the chimney. Maya watched them die in the darkness above, then forced herself to look back at him.

"Maybe I'm just too stubborn to die in the snow."

"Maybe." His thumb slid to the corner of her lip, pressing just slightly, just enough to feel the pulse of her heartbeat through the skin. "Or maybe you're tired of fighting something that isn't trying to kill you."

She should have pulled away. Should have laughed it off, made a joke, deflected the way she'd deflected every man who'd ever tried to get this close. But the weight of his hand on her jaw felt like an anchor, and she was so goddamn tired of drifting.

"What do you want from me, Cole?"

The question came out smaller than she intended. She heard it in her own voice, the crack in it, the thing she'd been trying to hide since the moment she'd fallen onto this bedroll with his hand on her hip.

He didn't answer right away. His thumb moved again, tracing the line of her jaw down to her chin, tilting her face up toward him. The firelight caught the scar on his hand, the pale raised tissue that ran across his knuckles, and she saw the way it pulled when he flexed his fingers.

"I want you to stop pretending," he said. "That's all I've ever wanted."

"Pretending what?"

"That you're not scared. That you're not tired. That you're not lying here wondering what it would feel like if I stopped being careful."

The words landed somewhere deep in her chest, in that hollow place she'd been guarding since she'd stumbled into this cabin three days ago. She wanted to deny it. Wanted to tell him he didn't know anything, that he was just a drifter who'd buried a stranger and thought that gave him the right to read her like a map.

But the truth was, she'd been wondering. Lying awake on the dead man's bedroll, watching the fire paint shadows across the ceiling, she'd been wondering what it would feel like if Cole stopped being careful. If he stopped measuring every word, every touch, every glance.

The thought made her thighs press together beneath the wool, made her breath go shallow in her throat.

"And if I said I wasn't wondering?" she asked.

"I'd say you're a liar." His thumb traced the corner of her mouth again, slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. "And I'd say you're tired of lying to yourself."

The fire popped. A shower of sparks rose up the chimney, and Maya watched them die in the darkness above, feeling the heat of his hand on her jaw like a brand she couldn't scrub off.

"You don't get to decide what I feel," she said.

"I'm not deciding anything. I'm just telling you what I see."

"And what do you see?"

He was quiet for a long moment, his eyes searching her face in the firelight. The shadows carved hollows under his cheekbones, made the scar on his hand look deeper, darker. She could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical thing, pressing against her skin, and she didn't look away. She wouldn't give him that.

"I see a woman who's been running so long she forgot what standing still feels like," he said. "I see someone who thinks if she stops moving, everything she's been outrunning will finally catch up."

Maya's throat tightened. She wanted to argue, wanted to tell him he was wrong, but the words wouldn't come. Because he wasn't wrong. He wasn't even close to wrong.

"And what happens when it catches up?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"You find out if you can survive it." His thumb slid along her jaw, down to her chin, tilting her face up toward him. "Or you find out you can't."

"That's not comforting."

"I'm not trying to comfort you."

The fire crackled between them, the only sound in the cabin besides the wind pressing against the walls. Maya could smell him—smoke and leather and something darker, something that made her pulse skip in her throat. She could feel the heat of his body, close enough that if she leaned forward just a little, she could press her forehead to his chest.

"What if I want to stop running?" The words came out before she could stop them, and she felt her cheeks flush with the admission. She was a journalist, goddamn it. She'd interviewed warlords and walked through war zones. She didn't admit weakness to anyone, least of all a man she'd known for three days.

But Cole didn't look triumphant. He didn't look like he'd won something. He just looked at her, his winter-blue eyes soft in the firelight, and she felt something crack open in her chest.

"Then you stop," he said. "Right here. Right now. You stop running and you see what happens."

"And what happens?"

His thumb traced the line of her jaw, down to the corner of her mouth, and she felt the callus catch on her skin. She felt the pulse in her throat jump, felt the heat pooling low in her belly, felt the ache between her thighs that had been building since he'd pressed her down onto this bedroll.

"I don't know," he said. "That's the thing about stopping. You don't get to know what comes next. You just have to trust that you'll survive it."

"Trust." She said the word like it tasted strange on her tongue. "You told me trust is a luxury out here."

"It is." His hand moved, his fingers sliding into her hair, the calluses catching on the strands. "But so is this."

She felt the pull of his hand, gentle but insistent, drawing her toward him. She could have resisted. Could have pulled back, made a joke, deflected the way she'd deflected every man who'd ever tried to get this close. But she was so tired. So goddamn tired of fighting something that wasn't trying to kill her.

She let him pull her up.

The movement brought her chest against his, her knees straddling his thighs, the dead man's jeans pressing into her hip where the button dug in. She could feel the heat of him through the flannel, could feel the hard muscle of his chest beneath her palms, and she realized her hands had found their way to his shoulders without her telling them to.

Cole's hand stayed in her hair, his thumb tracing the shell of her ear. His other hand found her hip, resting there, not gripping, not forcing, just holding her like she was something precious.

"That's not standing still," he said, and there was something in his voice, something rough and dark that made her stomach clench.

"Then teach me what happens when I don't."

The words hung between them, and she watched his eyes darken, watched the careful control in his face slip just slightly, like a mask shifting. His grip on her hip tightened, and she felt the scar on his hand press against her through the fabric of the jeans.

She was breathing hard. She could feel it in her chest, in her throat, in the place between her thighs that was aching, throbbing, hungry for something she hadn't let herself want in years.

Cole's hand moved from her hip, slow, deliberate, and she watched it travel down her thigh, the calluses catching on the worn denim. She felt the button of the dead man's jeans give way, felt the zipper slide down, felt the cool air find her skin where the fabric gaped open.

And then his hand was on her, his fingers sliding through the damp heat of her, and she gasped, her hips bucking against his palm before she could stop herself.

"There it is," he said, his voice low and rough. "There's the truth."

She should have pushed him away. Should have told him to stop, to slow down, to give her a minute to catch her breath. But his fingers were moving, finding her clit, circling it with a pressure that made her see stars, and she couldn't find the words.

"Cole—"

"I've got you." His thumb pressed down, and she felt her hips buck again, felt the wet heat of her soaking his fingers. "You're not running anymore. You're right here. With me."

She was. God, she was. She was right there, straddling his thighs on the dead man's bedroll, her hands fisted in his flannel, her head thrown back as his fingers worked her toward something she could feel building in her belly.

"I want to feel you come," he said, and the words sent a shudder through her. "I want to feel you let go. Can you do that for me?"

She nodded, not trusting her voice. His fingers moved faster, pressing deeper, and she felt the coil in her belly tighten, felt the heat building, building, building until she couldn't breathe—

And then she broke.

His name tore from her throat as she came, her body clenching around his fingers, her hips grinding against his palm. He held her through it, his other hand steady on her hip, his voice low in her ear, telling her she was good, she was perfect, she was right where she needed to be.

When the shaking finally stopped, she slumped against him, her forehead pressed to his chest, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She could feel his heart beating beneath her cheek, fast and strong, and she realized he wasn't as calm as he looked.

"That was—" she started.

"That was you stopping." His hand came up to cup her face, tilting her chin up so she had to look at him. "That was you trusting me."

She should have felt scared. Should have felt exposed, vulnerable, like she'd given something away she could never get back. But all she felt was the warmth of his hand on her cheek, the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm, and the strangest sense of peace.

"What happens now?" she asked.

Cole's thumb traced her cheekbone, slow and gentle. "Now we see what happens when you stop running."

And then his mouth was on hers—slow, deliberate, a claim more than a kiss.