The brutality of it was intoxicating, a storm she was willing to drown in, but as his pace turned frantic, she needed to ground him. She needed to see him.

Her hands flew up, palms slamming against his cheeks, fingers digging into the rough stubble of his jaw to hold him fast. She didn't say a word, but the force of her grip dragged his gaze down, locking his wild, dilated eyes onto hers.

The effect was instantaneous. The frenetic blurring of his hips slowed, shifting into a heavy, rolling grind that was infinitely more intense.

Keep it like that, she pleaded silently, her mouth falling open in a broken, silent gasp.

She let her legs fall wider, her heels digging into the floorboards to pull him deeper, trying to eliminate even the concept of space between them. The change in rhythm let her feel everything—the terrifying size of him stretching her, the distinct, hard ridges, the thrum of blood in his veins pulsing against her own enraged interior.

Staring up at him, seeing the raw worship and hunger mirrored in his face, was the final straw. The tension that had been coiling in her belly snapped violently.

Her back arched off the floor, a high, keen sound tearing from her throat as the orgasm crashed through her, shattering her composure. She rode the waves of it, her vision blurring, but she refused to let go of his face.

Trembling, she engaged her core and lifted her head, meeting him halfway. She pressed a desperate, open-mouthed kiss to his lips, tasting the salt and heat of him, before pulling back just enough to speak against his mouth.

The slowness was a different kind of torment, a heavy, dragging friction that made her toes curl even as the aftershocks of her own release continued to flutter through her. She didn't want him to speed up. Not yet. She needed to feel the weight of him, the sheer reality of him occupying space inside her.

She kept her hands framed on his face, her thumbs brushing the sweat from his cheekbones, anchoring him in this agonizingly perfect rhythm. Every time he withdrew, she whimpered, and every time he sank back in—deep, deliberate, unhurried—she met him, canting her hips to take him even further.

She tightened her internal muscles around him, squeezing him with a possessive, rhythmic pulse, trying to milk a groan from his throat.

"That's it," she breathed, her voice a broken, wet whisper against his mouth. "Just like that. Don't you dare speed up."

She looked deep into his eyes, letting him see exactly what he was doing to her, how completely he owned her in this moment. She dragged her nails lightly down the back of his neck, shivering as he bottomed out and held there, throbbing inside her.

"Feel me, baby," she pleaded, lifting her hips to grind against him, forcing him to endure the friction of her tightening walls. "Feel how much I need you."

Her internal muscles clamped down on him, a rhythmic, milking squeeze that nearly blackened his vision.

"Fuck," he groaned, the sound tearing out of his throat as he squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the urge to empty himself right then and there. She was commanding him to stay slow, but her body was begging him to finish it.

He opened his eyes, staring down at her. She was flushed, wrecked, and beautiful, but the angle wasn't enough. He wanted more. He wanted to be so deep inside her that he touched her soul.

He broke her hold on his face, his hand shooting out to grab the thick down pillow she had been clinging to earlier.

"Lift up," he ordered, his voice a strained grit.

He didn't wait for her to comply; he grabbed her hip with his free hand and hoisted her lower body off the floor. She gasped as he shoved the pillow underneath her ass, elevating her pelvis, tilting her hips up to offer him a devastating new angle.

He didn't hesitate. He dropped his weight back down, driving his hips forward.

The shift changed everything.

He slid past the point of friction he’d been hitting before, sinking into a depth that made her eyes roll back. He was hitting her cervix now, a deep, dull thud of connection with every stroke.

"There," he hissed, sweat dripping from his nose onto her chest. "That's it. Now I can feel all of you."

He abandoned the slow grind. He couldn't sustain it, not with her opened up like this. He began to thrust with a long, deliberate power. He pulled almost all the way out, letting the cool air hit the slick head of his cock, before slamming back in—thwack—burying himself to the root.

He watched the way her body absorbed the impact, the way her breasts swayed with the force of his possession. He couldn't keep his hands off her. He reached down, his large hand engulfing her left breast, kneading the soft flesh roughly. His thumb found her nipple, already hard, and flicked it, enjoying the sharp intake of breath that followed.

"You like that?" he murmured, leaning down.

He replaced his hand with his mouth, latching onto her breast through the curtain of her hair. He sucked hard, his tongue swirling against the sensitive nub, while his hand moved down to grip her hip bone, pinning her to the pillow so she couldn't retreat from him.

He established a punishing rhythm—mouth sucking, hand holding, hips driving. He was a machine fueled by lust, piston-firing into her wet heat. He felt the suction of her walls dragging at him, the wet, squelching noise of their coupling filling the room.

He pulled back, sliding out slowly, feeling every ridge of her interior clinging to him, before snapping his hips forward to impale her again.

"You're so tight," he groaned against her skin, the vibration traveling through her chest. "Clamp down on me again, baby. Do it. Squeeze me while I fill you up."

He lifted his head, needing to see her face as he approached the edge. He drove into her, harder, faster, his control snapping like a twig. He wasn't thinking about the snow or the donuts or the pill. He was thinking about the fact that she was his, and he was about to leave the undeniable proof of it deep inside her.

The shift in angle was devastating. With her hips elevated on the pillow, she felt completely laid bare, opened up in a way that left her nowhere to hide. Every thrust hit a spot deep inside her that teetered on the edge of pleasure and pain, stealing the breath from her lungs before she could even gasp.

When he groaned for her to clamp down, her body obeyed before her mind could process the command. She squeezed him, her inner muscles rippling around his length, milking him as he drove into her with that frantic, final desperation. She threw her head back, her fingers digging into the carpet as the tension coiled tight in her belly and then shattered. She felt him stiffen, his groan vibrating against her chest as he poured himself into her, the warmth flooding her deep inside.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, a tangle of limbs and heavy breathing, the room slowly settling around them. Cleo lay still, her chest rising and falling rapidly, feeling the weight of him and the sticky, undeniable evidence of what they’d just done.

Slowly, the fog of lust began to lift, replaced by the practicalities of the morning.

She shifted, gently nudging his shoulder until he pulled back, the loss of his warmth making her shiver slightly. She sat up, pushing her hair back from her face, feeling the soreness in her muscles—a good kind of ache.

"I'm going to go take a shower," she announced, her voice a little raspy. She stood up, her legs slightly shaky, and looked down at him. He looked wrecked in the best possible way, but she couldn't let them stay in this cocoon forever.

"And you," she said, nudging his leg with her foot, "need to go to the store. *Especially* now." She gave him a pointed look, her eyebrows raised. "Go get the supplies. When you get back, you can take a shower while I make breakfast. God knows we need to eat considering we completely abandoned dinner last night."

She leaned down, ignoring her own disheveled state to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. When she pulled back, her expression was tender but firm.

"And then, Ben, you have to work on your music. And I’m going to paint." She brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "We came here for that, too. As much as I love... *this*," she gestured vaguely to the pillow on the floor and their naked bodies, "I don't want to be the reason you don't get any work done. I want to be the muse, baby, not the distraction."

She cupped his cheek, her thumb stroking his cheekbone, her eyes glinting with a mix of affection and promise.

"But..." she murmured, leaning in close to his ear. "If you're a good boy and get your work done... we can get in the hot tub later. How does that sound?"

He watched her stand up, his eyes tracing the line of her spine and the faint, red marks his hands had left on her hips. A lazy, satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. She looked wrecked, tousled, and absolutely incredible.

When she nudged his leg with her foot, ordering him to the store, he let out a groan that was fifty percent exhaustion and fifty percent theatrics. He reached out, wrapping his hand around her ankle for a brief second, his thumb brushing the bone.

"Aye aye, Captain," he drawled, releasing her with a reluctant sigh. "Plan B, donuts, shower. In that order. Though..."

He sat up, the air hitting his damp skin, and ran a hand through his chaotic hair, sniffing his own shoulder with an exaggerated grimace.

"You sure you don't want a second pair of hands in that shower? I’m pretty sure I smell like sex, woodsmoke, and questionable life choices. I might need to be hosed down before I traumatize the bait shop owner."

He flashed her a grin—all teeth and boyish charm—but didn't make a move toward the bathroom. instead, he pushed himself off the floor, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. His back cracked audibly, a sound that made him wince and laugh at the same time.

"Old man back," he muttered, wandering over to the dresser. He opened the top drawer, rummaging around for a fresh pair of boxers. "That floor is unforgiving. Worth it, but unforgiving."

He pulled on the boxers, shimmying them up his legs, then grabbed a pair of jeans from the chair where he’d discarded them yesterday. He hopped on one foot to get them on, almost tripping over his own boots in the process, but recovered with a stumbling grace that suggested he meant to do it.

"And hey," he said, buttoning his fly as he turned back to look at her, his expression softening. "I hear you on the work stuff. You’re right. I’ve got melodies in my head that are starting to annoy me, so they need to get out."

He grabbed a thick flannel shirt from the dresser, shoving his arms into the sleeves but leaving it unbuttoned for a second, revealing the scratches she’d left on his chest.

"I can handle you being the muse," he teased, walking over to where she stood. He leaned down, bracing a hand on the wall beside her head, trapping her there for a second. "Even if you are a very, very distracting muse. I’ll try to keep my focus on the guitar strings and not... other things."

He winked, reaching out to tap the tip of her nose.

"But that hot tub offer?" He grinned, shaking his head. "That is dirty pool, baby. Manipulation at its finest. And it worked completely. I will be the best boy you’ve ever seen. I’ll write a whole damn symphony if it gets me in that water with you later."

He grabbed his keys from the nightstand, tossing them in the air and catching them with a snap.
"Alright. I’m braving the elements. Save me some hot water."

Cleo leaned back against the doorframe of the bathroom, pulling the lapels of her robe tighter across her chest. She watched him with a soft, tired smile, unable to deny how good he looked—disheveled, flannel unbuttoned, standing in the middle of the cabin.

"As tempting as that sounds," she said, her voice raspy from sleep and overuse, "if you get in that shower with me, we both know absolutely no 'hosing down' is going to happen. We’ll just end up slipping on the tile and missing the donut window. And I need the caffeine and sugar more than I need the company right now."

She kept her tone light, teasing, but the truth was heavier. She didn't have the energy to resist him again, and she needed a moment of solitude to scrub her skin and clear her head.

As he grabbed his keys and winked, flashing that grin that had been plastered on billboards, her smile faltered just a fraction. She watched him move—the easy confidence, the way the world seemed to bend around him—and felt a sudden, sharp pang in her chest.

He was right; she was exhausted. But it wasn't just the physical exertion. She hadn’t slept well even after he’d passed out, her mind buzzing with a static she couldn't tune out. He fogged up her brain. He took up so much space in her thoughts that there was barely room for her own quiet routines anymore.

As the front door clicked shut downstairs, the silence rushed back in, but it didn't bring peace.

She walked to the window, peering through the blinds to watch him jog to his truck. The lines were blurring. She knew that. Last night, tangled in the sheets, it had been easy to forget. It was just Ben and Cleo. But now, with talk of songwriting and "muses," the reality was creeping back in.

She loved him. God, she loved him so much it made her teeth ache. She didn't want anyone else; the thought of another man touching her was laughable. But loving Ben meant loving the storm that came with him. She looked at his truck pulling out of the gravel drive and felt a cold knot of anxiety. She wanted to be with him, desperately, but she didn't know if she could stomach being part of his world. The fame, the noise, the public ownership of his private feelings—it was everything she had built her life to avoid.

"Just donuts," she whispered to the empty room, turning on the shower tap. "Just focus on the donuts."

Cleo had slipped into the hot tub quietly, like she did everything when she was trying not to be noticed.

The water was already steaming, a low fog curling up around her shoulders as she sank down and let the heat loosen muscles that had been tight since dawn. Snow clung to the edges of the deck and the surrounding pines stood still and heavy, like they were keeping a secret. The cabin behind her glowed faintly, warm light spilling through the windows, the sound of nothing louder than wind and the occasional creak of wood.

She’d finished two paintings already.

The first had come easily—morning light, frost on glass, trees standing patient and unmoved. The second had taken longer, more layering, more pauses with the brush hovering while she tried not to think too much about why her chest felt tight even in all that quiet. When she finally set it aside, her hands had been steady, her breathing even. Productive. Grounded. Normal.

Ben had kept his promise.

She could hear him earlier, tucked away with his guitar and notebook, the soft, familiar sounds of him working drifting through the cabin walls. No pressure. No pulling at her attention. Just focus. Discipline. Music. The version of him that had always been both comforting and dangerous in how easily it read her.

That was why she’d put space between them.

Not dramatically. Not coldly. Just… carefully.

She knew him too well. Knew that if she so much as hesitated in a doorway or stared out a window a second too long, he’d clock it. Ask the right question. Tilt his head in that way that meant he already knew the answer. And they still had five days left.

Five days she didn’t want to fracture with a conversation she wasn’t ready to finish.

The getaway had been perfect so far. Quiet mornings. Shared meals. Long stretches of doing their own things without needing to explain it. She didn’t want to be the one who cracked that open too soon. Didn’t want to turn something soft into something sharp just because her thoughts wouldn’t settle.

The water lapped gently against her collarbone as she leaned her head back, eyes closing for a moment. Steam curled into the cold air, disappearing almost as soon as it formed. She focused on that—the way warmth and winter coexisted without fighting. The way things didn’t have to be solved to be real.

She told herself this was enough for today.

That she could sit here, breathe, let the heat hold her, and come back inside when she was ready. That whatever was stirring under her ribs could wait. That five more days was time. That perfection didn’t have to mean permanence.

Snow fell softly around her, the world hushed and patient.

And for now, she stayed exactly where she was.

Operation: Be Boring had actually been a killer success.

For the last six hours, Ben had been a model of artistic discipline. He’d holed up in the corner of the living room with his Gibson, a notepad, and a lukewarm mug of coffee, forcing himself to ignore the fact that Cleo was just a room away.

He’d wrestled with a bridge that had been haunting him for weeks, hummed melodies into his voice memos until his throat felt scratchy, and scribbled down three pages of lyrics that didn't totally suck. It was the most productive he’d been in months, mostly because he wasn't hungover, exhausted from travel, or surrounded by yes-men.

He set the guitar down on its stand, flexing his fingers. His calluses were throbbing—a good ache, a familiar one. He stretched his arms over his head, hearing his spine crack in three different places, and let out a long exhale.

The cabin was quiet. Too quiet.

He stood up, grabbing his empty mug, and padded into the kitchen to get some water. The silence felt heavy, different from the comfortable quiet of the morning. It felt… thoughtful. And Cleo being thoughtful usually meant Cleo was spiraling.

He filled a glass at the tap, drinking it down in one go, and glanced out the sliding glass door that led to the back deck.

Steam was rising in thick, white plumes against the darkening gray sky. And right in the center of it, framed by the snow-heavy pines, was Cleo.

She was leaning back against the edge of the tub, her eyes closed, her dark hair pinned up messily with damp tendrils escaping down her neck. She looked peaceful, but there was a stillness to her posture that Ben recognized. She was retreating. She was doing that thing where she went inside her own head to arrange the furniture because she didn't like how messy the room was getting.

He set the glass down on the counter with a soft clink.

He wasn't going to let her stay in there alone. Not with that much thinking time.

He scanned the counter until he found what he was looking for: a small glass jar and a lighter. He fished out a pre-roll he’d twisted up yesterday—a little indica-heavy blend perfect for doing absolutely nothing.

He didn't bother with a coat. He just shucked off his flannel shirt, leaving it draped over a kitchen chair, and shimmied out of his jeans until he was just in his boxers. He hesitated for a split second, then smirked and ditched the boxers too.

If he was crashing her party, he was committing to the dress code.

He slid the glass door open, bracing himself as the freezing mountain air slapped his bare skin.

"Jesus," he hissed under his breath, stepping out onto the icy deck.

He moved quickly, the snow crunching faintly under his bare feet, closing the distance to the tub in three long strides. Cleo didn't open her eyes immediately, but he saw her shoulders tense just slightly—she knew he was there.

"You know," he called out, his voice cutting through the steam as he climbed the small steps. "I held up my end of the bargain. I wrote the bridge. I ignored the urge to come bug you seventeen times. I think I’ve earned admission."

He swung one leg over the side of the tub, sinking into the scalding water with a low, appreciative groan. The heat enveloped him instantly, melting the chill from the air and the stiffness from his session with the guitar.

He settled onto the bench next to her—close enough that his arm brushed hers underwater, but not crowding her. Not yet.

He leaned his head back against the rim, looking over at her as the water settled around them. He held up the joint between two fingers, flicking the lighter with his thumb. The flame flared orange against the gray dusk.

"Peace offering," he murmured, taking a slow drag and blowing the smoke up toward the pines before offering it to her. "For the muse. You looked like you were thinking too loud over here."

Cleo let out a soft huff of a laugh when he announced his heroic productivity like he’d just returned from war.

“Wow,” she said, finally opening her eyes and turning her head toward him, steam beading on her lashes. “Seventeen times? You’re telling me you restrained yourself and I’m supposed to be impressed?”

She shook her head fondly.
“That’s growth, Benjamin. I’m proud of you.”

But the truth—one she didn’t say out loud—was that the second he slid into the tub, something in her chest loosened. The quiet that had felt heavy before softened. The thoughts she’d been stacking like anxious dominoes scattered. His presence always did that. Like he reached inside her head and turned the volume knob down without even trying.

She’d been spiraling. She knew it. Thinking about time and what-ifs and how easy it was to disappear in this bubble with him and forget the outside world existed. It scared her how good it felt. How safe.

And then he showed up. Half-frozen. Bare. Smirking.

And suddenly she could breathe again.

When he offered the joint, she accepted it with a small smile.
“For the muse, huh?” she murmured. “Is that what we’re calling me now?”

She took a slow drag, eyes fluttering closed for a second as she exhaled.
“I was thinking too loud,” she admitted. “You always catch me when I do that. It’s deeply annoying.”

Her foot brushed his under the water again, this time without thinking about it.
“But… thanks,” she added quietly. “For coming out here. For… interrupting my brain.”

She glanced at him sideways, warmth creeping into her expression.
“Your peace offerings are accepted. Even if you’re aggressively naked.”

And just like that, the anxiety faded into steam.

Cleo shifted closer to the edge of the tub, letting the heat soak into her shoulders as the joint burned low between her fingers. For a few seconds longer, she let herself stay right here—in the steam, in the quiet, in the easy way his presence stitched her back together without asking permission.

Because god, this bubble was intoxicating.

This place where time felt suspended. Where mornings started with paint and evenings ended like this. Where Ben wasn’t a name on a schedule or a face on a screen, but just a warm body next to hers, guitar calluses and all. Where she didn’t have to brace herself for noise or expectations or being seen.

But the thought slid in anyway. Soft. Uninvited.

Five days.

Five days until the snow melted back into roads and calendars and flights. Five days until this cabin stopped being a hiding place and started being a memory. Five days until she went back to Los Angeles—traffic, studios, unfinished canvases—and he went back to wherever his life told him to be next. Cities she didn’t always know. Dates she tried not to memorize.

She stared up at the gray sky, watching the steam disappear into it.

“This is really nice,” she said quietly, almost to herself. Then, softer but steadier, “Like… dangerously nice.”

She nudged his foot again under the water, grounding herself in something real.
“But I keep thinking about how fast five days goes,” she admitted. “And how good we are at pretending the outside world doesn’t exist when we’re like this.”

Her voice wasn’t accusing. It wasn’t even sad. Just honest.

“I don’t want to ruin it,” she added, finally looking at him. “I don’t want to fight or overthink or turn this into something heavy when it’s been… perfect.”

A small breath left her, fogging the air.
“But when we leave here, I’m still in L.A. And you’re still wherever the hell your calendar sends you. And I don’t know how to hold both things at the same time—this and that—without feeling like one of them eventually disappears.”

She leaned her head back against the rim again, eyes closing, letting the water lap quietly around them.

“I just don’t want to wake up one day and realize this was the easy part,” she murmured. “And that I stayed quiet because it felt too good to question.”

Her toes brushed his ankle once more, gentle, seeking reassurance without asking for it outright.

“But right now,” she said, softer again, “I’m really glad we’re here.”

He watched the smoke curl from her lips, the gray tendrils disappearing into the darker gray of the sky. He took the joint back when she offered it, carefully keeping his right hand elevated, resting his wrist on the freezing cold wood of the deck railing to keep the paper dry.

He took a drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs, holding it for a second before exhaling a long, slow stream.

She was right. He knew she was right.

He could feel the countdown, too. It was a ticking clock in the back of his head—five days, four days, three days—until the noise rushed back in. Until he was Ben Wilder, the product, and she was Cleo, the girl waiting for a text back from a different time zone.

It scared the shit out of him, too. But he wasn't going to let her drown in it. Not tonight.
"You're right," he said, his voice low and steady, cutting through the steam. "It is dangerously nice. That’s why we’re here. To remember what it feels like to just be humans, not... schedules."

He kept his dry hand perched on the rim of the tub, the joint smoldering between his fingers, but he used his left hand—the wet one—to reach out under the water. He found her knee, his fingers wrapping around the smooth curve, squeezing gently.

"But hey," he said, waiting until her eyes flickered back to his. "Look at me."

He slid along the bench, cutting through the water until his hip bumped against hers. He was close enough now to see the flecks of gold in her eyes, close enough to smell the chlorine and the lingering scent of her shampoo.

"This part? The cabin? The snow? Yeah, it's the easy part," he admitted, unshrinking in his honesty. "It's easy to be in love when the world is quiet. I get that. And I know L.A. is loud. I know the tour is a beast."

He took another hit, careful to keep his hand away from the splashing water, and then passed it back to her, watching her fingers brush his.

"But you’re looking at it wrong," he murmured. "You think this—us, right here—is separate from that. Like we have to choose between the cabin version of us and the real world version."

He shook his head, water droplets flying from his hair.

"We aren't the location, Cleo. We're the people in it."

He moved his wet hand from her knee up to her neck, his thumb brushing the damp hair at her nape. His touch was firm, grounding.

"When I go back on tour, I’m not leaving this," he gestured between them with his chin. "I'm taking it with me. I'm taking the fact that you know I take my coffee black, and the fact that you know exactly how to calm me down when I’m spiraling. I’m taking the memory of you painting in the morning light."

He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers, ignoring the steam and the cold air biting at his exposed shoulders.

"It’s going to be hard," he whispered, validating her fear without letting it win. "I’m not gonna lie to you. The distance sucks. The schedule is garbage. But don't you dare think that one of them has to disappear. I’m not letting you disappear. And I’m sure as hell not letting us disappear just because I have to get on a bus."

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, a crooked, self-deprecating grin tugging at his lips.

"Besides," he teased, his voice lightening, bringing back the charm she needed. "You think I can survive out there without my muse now? You’ve ruined me for anyone else, babe. I need you to keep my ego in check. Without you roasting me, I’ll probably start wearing leather pants and writing terrible synth-pop. You can’t let that happen to the world."

Cleo listened to him without interrupting, her fingers curling loosely around the joint when he passed it back. She watched the smoke drift away, watched the way his face softened when he talked about taking pieces of her with him. It was sweet. It always was. He had a way of making hope sound reasonable.

But something in her stayed still.

Not cold. Not closed. Just… steady.

She took a slow breath before answering, letting it out through her nose. “You always say things like that,” she said quietly, not unkind. “And I believe you. I do. I know you mean it.”

Her foot brushed his again under the water, grounding herself before she kept going.

“I just… I don’t think meaning it is the same as it working,” she admitted. “Not long-term. Not officially. Not in the real world.”

She finally looked at him, really looked. The boyish grin, the tired eyes behind it, the way he tried to wrap everything in humor so it wouldn’t hurt as much.

“This?” she gestured between them, the steam, the snow, the quiet. “This is easy. Not because it’s shallow—because it’s safe. We don’t have deadlines here. No flights. No crowds. No people pulling at you from every direction.”

Her voice stayed soft, but there was a firmness underneath it. “But when you leave… you don’t just go back to a job. You go back to a whole world that doesn’t slow down. And I don’t fit in that world the way you do. I don’t want to either.”

She rested her head back against the tub, eyes on the dark sky. “I think we’re really good at loving each other in moments,” she said. “I don’t know if we’re good at building a life around it anymore.”

A small, sad smile tugged at her mouth. “Not because we don’t care. But because we care in different directions.”

She turned her head toward him again. “So yeah… it’s going to be easy here. And beautiful. And I’m not taking that for granted.”

Her toes nudged his ankle gently. “I just don’t want to pretend it means something it probably can’t be.”

When he joked about leather pants, she huffed a quiet laugh despite herself. “You’d look ridiculous,” she said, shaking her head. “And you know it.”

Then, softer, “I don’t need to be your muse. I just… want to be real with you.”

And in the steam and the cold air, that truth sat between them—tender, heavy, honest.