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She didn’t mean to crash her car into a snowbank halfway up a mountain. And she definitely didn’t mean to end up on the doorstep of her ex-husband. But with a blizzard bearing down, no cell signal, and nowhere else to go, Piper finds herself face-to-face with the last man she expected to see again. The grump. The recluse. The man she once walked out on without a word.

Too bad he’s still hot.

Too bad his cabin only has one bed.

 Chapter One 

Piper 

Let It Snow

I’ve made a lot of questionable decisions in my life, but driving up a snow-covered mountain in a compact SUV with bald tires, one granola bar, and a Spotify playlist called Festive as F?*

Yeah. This one’s top three.

The snow wasn’t supposed to start until late tonight. That’s what the app said. I was supposed to beat the worst of it, cruise into the cabin with time to light the fire, pour a drink, and pretend I didn’t just spend the last week getting ghosted by my own family.

Instead, I’m gripping the steering wheel like it might save me, leaning forward as if an extra ten degrees of squinting will help me see through the blizzard.

“Come on, come on, come on…”

The tires slip again.

I don’t even realize I’m sliding until the back of the car fishtails. There’s a sick swoop in my stomach. I pump the brakes, try to steer into it—

Too late.

The car jerks to the right and dips nose-first into a shallow ditch.

The engine’s still running, but it’s tilted. Stuck.

“Oh, perfect,” I mutter, throwing it in reverse. Nothing. I try again. The tires spin, spraying slush and not budging an inch.

For a second, I just sit there. Breathing through my nose.

Not panicking.

Not crying.

Definitely not fantasizing about how nice it would’ve been if this week had gone literally any other way.

I grab my phone. No bars. Not even a flicker.

“Of course. Ugh!”

There’s no one to call. No signal. No magic tow truck appearing out of the storm.

I’m officially stranded.

I peer through the side window. The snow’s coming down so thick, I can barely see past the trees. Everything’s white and blurry and getting worse by the second. But I remember, vaguely, a cabin a little ways back. Looked rustic. Maybe abandoned. But it’s better than freezing in a half-dead SUV hoping someone thinks to check the road.

I grab my bag from the passenger seat, thank you, overpacking tendencies and push out into the cold. The wind hits me like a slap. I curl into my coat, duck my head, and start walking.

It’s farther than I thought. My boots sink into fresh snow with every step, and my jeans are soaked halfway up my thighs before I even see the outline of the cabin roof through the trees.

But there’s a light on.

I blink.

I could swear it was dark when I passed earlier. But there it is, a soft, golden glow bleeding through the front window like a little miracle.

“Please be a nice, retired couple with cocoa and a guest room,” I whisper, crunching up the steps. “Or, honestly, I’ll take someone with snacks and low-level survival instincts.”

I knock.

The wind whistles behind me. Snow clings to my coat, lashes, hair. I’m already shivering when the footsteps thud behind the door.

It swings open.

And any hope I had of a gentle welcome immediately dies.

Holt. My ex… of course.

I haven’t seen him since the night I left without saying goodbye.

He’s broader now. Seems a little more closed off too. Like winter carved its name across his whole damn face. He’s wrapped in flannel and glaring like I just insulted his woodpile.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” He says it like a prayer, or maybe it was a threat.

I force a smile, though my lips are frozen and I’m positive my hair looks like a frostbitten disaster. “Hi.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too.”

He doesn’t move. Just stares. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look more annoyed to have their night interrupted, and I once interrupted a blind date who turned out to be my ex’s cousin.

“I slid off the road,” I explain, motioning vaguely down the hill. “No signal. Car’s stuck. This was the closest thing with walls and a roof, so…”

“You thought you’d just show up to a strange house and invite yourself in?”

“No,” I deadpan. “I thought I’d knock politely and hope the person inside wasn’t a total jackass.”

His brow twitches. Not enough to be a full reaction, but enough for me to notice.

“Look,” I add, my teeth starting to chatter now. “I just need somewhere to warm up until the storm lets up. I won’t touch anything. I won’t sing carols. I’ll pretend you don’t exist, if that helps.”

He doesn’t respond right away.

The snow whips harder behind me. My legs are already numb. If he slams the door in my face, I’m either freezing to death or attempting to break into a tool shed and fashioning a tent out of lawn furniture.

Holt mutters something under his breath. Then—

He steps back.

I don’t wait. I slide past him into the heat, boots thudding against the wood floor, and nearly collapse from the relief of it.

The cabin’s warm and dimly lit, fire crackling low in the stone hearth. It smells like cedar and something slightly burnt. There’s a half-empty mug on the table and a single blanket thrown over the back of a battered armchair.

Minimal. Manly. Way too tidy for someone who apparently lives in the middle of nowhere and hates people. When did he move here?

He shuts the door hard. Locks it with a sharp click.

“Boots off. Don’t track snow all over.”

“Yes, sir,” I mutter, kicking them off.

He narrows his eyes but says nothing.

I peel off my soaked coat, hanging it near the fire, and try to wring out my wet hair. My hands are shaking and I pretend not to notice.

Holt stays standing, arms crossed like he’s regretting every life choice that led him to this moment.

“I’ll sleep on the floor if I have to,” I offer. “I won’t get in your way. Just… don’t make me go back out there.”

More silence. More glaring.

Then finally:

“Don’t touch anything. Don’t talk too much. And don’t make me regret this.”

I flash a tired, freezing smile. “Too late.”

He exhales through his nose, then turns and walks into the kitchen without another word.

I stand there for a second, dripping and unsure, staring around the cabin like it might bite me. It’s weird seeing someone you used to know in a place you didn’t expect them to be. Like the universe shuffled the deck wrong.

Holt wasn’t supposed to be here.

Then again, neither was I.

The fire crackles softly behind me. My socks squish with every step as I inch closer to the hearth, holding out my frozen fingers. I don’t ask if I can sit. I just do. Because if I think too hard about the fact that I’m in his space again—after all this time—I might lose the nerve to stay.

“This isn’t permanent,” he calls from the other room.

I smile at the flames. “Didn’t plan on marrying you again, Holt.”

Silence. Then the clink of a mug hitting the counter.

Maybe he thought I forgot. Maybe he did too.

But that’s the thing about history.

It doesn’t melt just because you’re standing by the fire.

Come back tomorrow for Chapter Two

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: December 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

 

 Two tropes. One holiday. Endless chaos.

Time for a very serious Thanksgiving debate:

Brother’s Best Friend vs. Best Friend’s Brother

 Both are S-tier romance tropes, but they scratch entirely different itches.

 

Brother’s Best Friend gives you:

• The forbidden crush

• Protective energy

• The “don’t look at me like that” stare

• Years of quiet tension

• A hero who knows exactly how much trouble he’s in

 

Best Friend’s Brother gives you:

• Surprise attraction

• The “oh no, he got hot” moment

• A little teasing, a little spark

• Built-in history

• The thrill of sneaking around under someone else’s roof

 

Are both superior?

Yes.

Will readers argue about it forever?

Also yes.

Do they both mix perfectly with a snowy Thanksgiving and a little bad judgment?

Absolutely.

Thanksgiving wasn’t supposed to get complicated. Remi planned on food, sleep, and pretending she wasn’t still thinking about that pantry kiss. Instead, the heat dies, the storm gets worse, and Bash ends up in her bed for “practical” reasons that stop being practical fast. One touch turns into another, and soon the cold outside is the last thing either of them is thinking about. This chapter takes their tension exactly where it’s been threatening to go — and neither of them pretends it’s a mistake.

Chapter Three

Remi

Leftovers & Bad Decisions

By the time we get through pie and half-listen to Duke yelling at the football game like the players owe him money, the house feels heavy with warmth and food and the kind of tired that sinks into your bones.

Rachel keeps doing that slow, sleepy blink that means she’s two minutes from passing out. Duke is still arguing with the refs on TV, gesturing so wildly he almost knocks over his beer.

I sit curled at the end of the couch, one leg tucked under me, trying not to notice Bash in the armchair across from me. He’s leaning forward with his forearms on his thighs, watching the game with quiet intensity that makes everything around him feel louder.

Every tiny shift he makes, my body notices.

Every time he glances my way, my pulse stutters.

You kissed him in the pantry. You touched him. You told him it was a bad idea and then dragged him closer anyway.

My mouth still feels a little tender.

Rachel finally flops against Duke. “Okay,” she groans. “I’m done. Cooked. A Thanksgiving zombie. Put me to bed.”

Duke grins and stands, joints popping. “Come on, my beautiful disaster. Bedtime.”

He pauses halfway up the stairs, glancing back at me and Bash. “You two good?”

“We’re fine,” I say way too fast.

Bash just gives a small nod.

Rachel points at me as Duke tows her upstairs. “No sad spiral tonight. You deserve to be happy, you know.”

Heat climbs my neck. “I’m fine.”

She hums like she doesn’t believe a word of it. “Goodnight, you two.”

Once they’re gone, the house shifts. The silence feels different. Thinner. Less buffered by other people’s warmth.

Just me.

And Bash.

And a storm outside that doesn’t sound like it’s stopping.

I stand, gathering empty mugs and plates. “I’ll clean up.”

“I’ve got it,” Bash says, rising from the chair.

“You survived the floor last night. You’ve suffered enough.”

One corner of his mouth lifts. “I was raised to help.”

Of course he was.

We fall into a rhythm—him rinsing, me loading the dishwasher. Our arms brush, our fingers graze when we pass things. Every accidental touch sends sparks through me.

Silence builds between us. Not awkward, not easy. Just charged.

When I finally speak, it comes out quiet. “We’re not talking about it.”

“Okay,” he says.

“We’re not.”

He exhales a small almost-laugh. “Okay.”

I glare at the dishwasher. “Stop being agreeable.”

“What do you want me to be?”

“Less… you.”

“Can’t help you there, Hollis.”

My stomach flips at the way he says my name.

We finish up. Counters wiped. Leftovers put away. And suddenly we’re just… standing there.

“Thanks,” I say, because it’s something.

“Anytime,” he says, and something in the way he says it makes me feel stupidly warm.

A cold draft snakes through the room, pulling goosebumps up my arms. The heating system groans loudly, then stutters.

Bash drops to one knee beside the vent, running his hand over the airflow. “It’s losing power,” he murmurs.

Another draft slides through, sharper this time. I shiver.

He notices instantly. Of course he does.

“You okay?” he asks, glancing up at me.

“It’s freezing,” I say softly.

He pushes up onto his knees, scrubbing a hand through his hair. And I can’t stop staring at the broad line of his shoulders, the way he fills the space without trying. “Heat kicks out when the wind gets bad,” he says quietly.

“Great,” I mutter. “Love that for us.”

“You should go get under the blankets in the guest room,” he says. “That side usually stays warmer.”

“What about you?” I ask. “You’re sleeping on the floor.”

“I’ve dealt with worse,” he says. “I’ll be fine.”

It’s the exact line he uses when something isn’t fine.

Another icy draft hits my calves. The vent clicks… then goes silent.

“Yeah,” I answer. “Okay. I’m going to bed.”

He nods. “Get warm. I’ll see what I can do.”

I head to the guest room. Climb into the cold bed. Pull the quilt around me. The heat hasn’t fully left the house, but the temperature is dropping—slow, creeping, unavoidable.

I curl tighter. Wait for warmth to settle in.

It doesn’t.

I must drift off, because when I jolt awake, the cold hits me full-force, sharp enough to suck the air from my lungs. The blankets rustle, and the room is noticeably colder than before.

His voice comes immediately, low in the dark:

“Remi? You okay?”

“No,” I whisper. “I mean… yes. I’m just—freezing.”

He shifts on the floor like he’s getting up. “You want more blankets? Duke might have—”

“That’s not it.”

Too fast. Too honest.

A beat of silence.

Then, softly, “What do you need?”

I look at him—half shadow, half hallway light spilling through the cracked door, all trouble for my sanity.

My breath shakes coming out.

“Come sleep in the bed with me.”

The air changes instantly. The cold fades—heat blooms instead, tight and overwhelming.

He goes still. “Remi…”

“It’s freezing,” I say, rushing before he can list all the reasons this is stupid. “You already slept on the floor last night. I know you’re trying to be respectful, and I appreciate it, but the bed is big. I’ll stay on my side. You’ll stay on yours. It’s… practical.”

His eyes search mine. Deep. Focused.

“Is that really why?”

Heat rushes under my skin. “It’s mostly why.”

“Mostly,” he echoes, low.

“And maybe…” My fingers twist in the quilt. “Maybe I don’t want to be alone.”

Something in his expression softens. And sharpens.

He steps closer.

“Remi,” he says slowly. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Too fast. He waits.

So, I steady my voice. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

He lets out a slow exhale, like he’s releasing something he’s held for years.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

He stands, grabs the blanket he brought in earlier, and nods. “Scoot over.”

I do. My heart is a runaway train.

He slides under the quilt beside me. The warmth radiates instantly, solid, steady, overwhelming.

“This is practical,” I lower my voice.

“Very,” he murmurs.

“And we’re adults.”

“Last I checked.”

“We can share a bed.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “If you say so.”

The room settles. The storm rattles the window. The cold presses against the house, but his heat curls around me like a secret.

Minutes pass.

I can’t stop thinking about the pantry. The kiss. His hands.

I bite my lip. Screw it.

“Bash?” I ask quietly.

“Yeah?” His voice is closer than I expected.

“Can I…?”

I don’t finish the question. I just inch back until my spine brushes his chest.

He freezes. Then slowly, carefully, lifts the blanket between us in silent invitation.

I move into him, warmth seeping into my bones instantly. His hand hovers at my waist.

“You can,” I whisper.

He settles his palm there. Gentle. Tentative. Reverent.

I cover his hand with mine and pull it tighter.

He exhales sharply against my neck.

“Remi.”

I turn toward him, heart hammering.

“Come here,” my voice comes out small, curling my fingers into his shirt.

Then I kiss him.

And this time, there’s no hesitation. No shock. No trying to convince ourselves it’s wrong.

Just heat, want and him.

He rolls me beneath him, his mouth hungry on mine, his hands sliding under my shirt like he’s been waiting years for permission.

And I let him.

I want him.

The storm howls outside, but under the quilt there’s only heat and the rough drag of his mouth on mine.

I shift higher, straddling his hips, my knees sinking into the mattress on either side of him. His hands slide up my thighs, gripping like he’s been waiting years to touch me like this. The thin cotton of my sleep shorts does nothing to dull the feeling of him, hard and heavy under me.

A shaky sound leaves my throat.

“Remi,” he breathes, like a warning.

“Too late,” I whisper, fingers curling in his shirt. “We’re already here.”

I pull the hem up, bunching the fabric over his ribs. He sits up enough to let me peel it off, the muscles in his stomach flexing under my hands. My brain glitches for a second at the sight of all that bare skin, the faint lines of old scars, the heat of him pressed close.

“Jesus,” I murmur. “You’ve been hiding this under flannels?”

“Trying to be a gentleman,” he says, voice rough. “You’re not helping.”

“Good,” I say, and then I’m kissing him again, hard.

His hands slide under my shirt, palms hot and sure. When his thumbs brush the underside of my breasts, my breath stutters. He freezes for half a second, giving me room to stop him.

I don’t.

I grab the hem of my own shirt and yank it over my head, tossing it somewhere toward the foot of the bed. The cold nips at my bare skin, but the look on his face makes me forget it instantly. His eyes go dark, hungry in a way that makes every inch of me feel seen.

“Remi,” he says again, like my name is the only thing holding him together.

“Touch me,” I say, my voice dipping.

He does.

His hands cup my breasts, thumbs circling slowly over my nipples until they ache. The steady, focused way he does it makes my spine arch, a broken sound punching out of my throat. I rock against him without meaning to, friction hitting exactly where I need it.

“Yeah,” he mutters, more to himself than to me. “There you go.”

Heat coils low in my stomach. I drag my mouth down his jaw, along the tense line of his neck, tasting salt and warmth and skin. His pulse kicks under my tongue. His fingers tighten on my hips, guiding the grind of my body against his.

“Remi.” It comes out strangled this time. “If you keep doing that, this is gonna be over fast.”

“Maybe I like you desperate,” I murmur against his throat.

He huffs out a broken laugh. “You’re killing me.”

He flips us before I can answer, rolling us so I’m on my back and he’s above me, braced on his forearms. The quilt slides with us, falling over his shoulders like a tent, trapping us in our own warm little world.

My legs part to make room for him automatically.

He settles between them, careful with his weight, careful with everything except the way his mouth finds mine again, hungry and deep. One of his hands trails down my side, over my hip, along the edge of my shorts.

He pauses, searching my face. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

“I don’t,” I say, immediate.

“Remi—”

“I don’t,” I repeat, quieter but just as certain. “I know what I’m asking. I know what I’m doing. I want you.”

Something in his expression cracks at that. His jaw works, like he’s holding back words he doesn’t trust himself to say.

“Okay,” he breathes.

His fingers hook in the waistband of my shorts, tugging them down slowly. The patience of it is almost worse than if he’d ripped them off. By the time he gets them past my knees, my whole body is buzzing.

He kisses down my throat, across my collarbone, lower. His mouth finds my breast, lips closing around my nipple while his hand slides between my thighs, testing how ready I am.

I gasp, hips jerking, one hand flying to his shoulder, the other to his hair.

“Bash,” I whisper, his name a plea.

“You’re so warm,” he mutters against my skin. His fingers stroke slowly through the slick heat of me, learning what makes me gasp, what makes my legs tremble. “Been thinking about this longer than I’m proud of.”

The honesty lands right next to the pleasure, turning everything sharper.

I’m already on the edge when he slides two fingers inside me, his thumb circling exactly where I need it. My back arches off the mattress. The sounds leaving me are not polite, not restrained, not anything I’d want Duke or Rachel to hear.

But it’s just us.

Just this bed. This storm. This man.

“Bash,” I choke out. “I’m—”

“I know,” he says, voice low and steady. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

That does it.

The tension snaps, pleasure crashing through me so hard my vision goes white around the edges. I grab at him, at the sheets, at whatever I can reach while my body shudders around his hand. His thumb keeps circling, gentle, guiding me down instead of tossing me off the cliff and walking away.

When I finally blink back to myself, he’s watching me.

Not smug. Not gloating.

Just… reverent.

“You good?” he asks quietly.

I let out a broken laugh. “Define good.”

He smiles, that small, real smile I never get to see. “You still cold?”

I realize I’m shaking and laugh again. “Not from that.”

His eyes darken. “Okay,” he says. “Then I need two seconds.”

He reaches toward his duffel bag on the floor, one arm stretching out from under the quilt. My brain catches up a second before he pulls the zipper, and I flush, heat climbing my face.

“Of course you have condoms,” I say.

“Of course I have condoms,” he echoes, mouth quirking as he fishes one out. “I’m not twenty.”

He tears the foil open, and the wet, obscene sound of latex sliding down over him sends a fresh bolt of want through me. I can’t see all of him in the dim light, but I see enough to know I’m in trouble.

“You sure?” he asks one more time, voice rough.

I lift my hips, answer with my body instead of words.

“Yeah,” I breathe out. “I’m sure.”

He lines up and pushes in slow.

The stretch steals my breath. He’s careful, watching my face more than anything else, giving me every chance to stop him. I don’t. I take all of him, inch by inch, until he’s seated deep and we’re both completely still.

It feels… like too much. Like exactly enough.

“Remi,” he says, like he’s praying.

I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him closer. “Move.”

He does.

Slow at first, like he’s relearning how his own body works. Each thrust is steady, controlled, and somehow that control makes everything hotter. The bed creaks softly, the headboard bumping the wall in a rhythm that feels loud even though I know it’s not.

I clutch at his back, fingers digging into warm muscle, anchoring myself to something solid while everything inside me liquefies.

He drops his head to my neck, breath hot against my skin. “You feel… God, Remi. You feel unreal.”

“Good unreal?” I manage, voice wrecked.

He laughs against my throat, the sound breaking on a groan when I roll my hips up to meet him. “Best kind.”

The storm slams against the side of the house like punctuation. The whole world could be buried out there and I wouldn’t care. All that matters is the way he fills me, the way his hand slides between us again, fingers finding that sensitive spot that’s already throbbing.

“That’s not fair,” I gasp.

“Equal opportunity,” he says, breathless. “Mutual stupidity, remember?”

I’m not built for banter in this position, but the words still pull a laugh from me, tangled with a moan when he hits the perfect angle.

Heat builds again, fast and relentless. My body knows what’s coming before my brain does. My toes curl, my thighs tighten around him, my nails bite into his shoulders.

“Bash,” I warn. “I’m—”

“I’ve got you,” he says again, voice breaking. “Come on. I’m right there.”

He thrusts harder, deeper, and the second his thumb circles just right, everything snaps again. Pleasure rips through me, stronger than the first time, sharp and consuming and impossible to hold back. I cry out into his shoulder, the sound muffled against his skin, whole body shaking as I clamp down around him.

He groans, low and raw, hips jerking as he follows me over the edge. His rhythm stutters, then stills, his body going tight and then slack as he spills into the condom, breath hot and ragged against my neck.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of us breathing and the wind savaging the outside of the house like it’s offended we forgot about it.

Eventually he eases out of me, careful, holding the base of the condom as he pulls back. The loss makes me shiver in a whole different way. The mattress shifts as he slides off the bed for a second to deal with it, then dips again when he comes back.

He settles against my side, and I roll into him without thinking, cheek finding his chest like it’s a spot I’ve used before. His arm comes around me automatically, palm spreading over my back, big and steady and warm.

My muscles slowly unknot, tension seeping out bone by bone.

This is dangerous, I think, staring at the shadowed curve of his shoulder.

And I don’t move to stop it.

Not tonight.

I let my eyes close, listening to the steady thump of his heart under my ear. The storm can do whatever it wants. For once, I’m exactly where I want to be.

Bash

The first thing I notice is the way she melts after.

It’s small stuff. The way her shoulders finally sink into the pillow. The death grip on my shirt loosening into a lazy curl. The way her weight settles fully against my chest, like she’s not braced to bolt.

The second thing I notice is that my heart is pounding way too hard for a man who’s supposedly survived worse than a blizzard and a beautiful woman asking him to climb into her bed.

I stare at the dark ceiling and try to make my brain catch up.

I did not plan this.

Didn’t plan on her sliding back against me, asking me to stay. Didn’t plan on her stripping that shirt off, eyes steady, like she’d already made her decision and there was no world where I talked her out of it.

Planning went out the window the second she said she didn’t want to be alone.

Her breath is warm against my chest now. One leg is thrown over mine, anchoring me in place. My hand rests on her bare hip, thumb brushing absently along the edge of her sleep shorts where they’ve ended up. I don’t remember the exact moment we shifted from careful to gone, just that at some point, thinking stopped and wanting took over.

She started it.

I would’ve, eventually, if she hadn’t.

The house still feels cold around the edges, but under the quilt there’s nothing but heat and the faint tremor in my muscles that says it’s been a while since I let anyone get this close.

“Hey,” she murmurs after a minute, voice rough and soft. “You alive?”

“Barely,” I answer.

She huffs a small laugh against my skin, the sound vibrating through my ribs. “Sorry about your survival.”

“Worth it,” I say before I can stop myself.

She goes still for a heartbeat, like the word surprises her.

It surprises me too, a little, how easy it is.

Her fingers trace a slow, absent line along my ribs, over old scars and newer ones. It’s not sexual now. Not exactly. More like she’s cataloguing, making sure I’m real.

“This is insane,” she says quickly. “We’re insane.”

“Maybe,” I say. “Feels real enough.”

“Don’t start being wholesome,” she warns. “I can’t handle wholesome Bash right now.”

“Wholesome?” I repeat. “That’s a new one.”

“You can’t be all that and emotionally devastating. It’s rude.”

A smile pulls at my mouth. “All that, huh?”

She makes a noise that might be embarrassment. “Don’t get weird about it.”

Too late.

I shift just enough to nudge my nose against her hairline, breathing in the faint scent of her shampoo under all the sex and sweat and cold air.

“You’re the one who dragged me into bed,” I remind her.

“You were freezing.”

“You were shivering.”

“Mutual stupidity,” she decides. “Equal blame.”

“That’s fair.”

Silence stretches again. Not sharp, not awkward. Just… full. Like the room is trying on a new shape around us.

Outside, the wind roars. Snow hits the siding in sheets. The window rattles like it’s thinking about giving up. Somewhere in the distance, a plow groans its way down the road.

Remi’s hand slides up into my hair, fingers curling lightly at the nape of my neck. Tender. Casual. Not casual at all.

“What are you thinking?” she asks quietly.

I could lie. Say I’m thinking about the heat. The power. Whether Duke’s going to walk in tomorrow and immediately know this bed saw more than sleep.

Instead, I take the smaller risk. The version of the truth that doesn’t blow her night apart.

“Thinking about how long I’ve wanted this,” I say.

Her breath catches against my chest. Her heartbeat picks up where her ribs press to my side.

“How long?” she asks.

I stare at the ceiling, remembering her in Duke’s first crappy apartment, arms full of plants, cheeks flushed from the stairs. The way she smiled at my little brother like he hung every star she’d ever seen. The way she laughed at one of my dry comments and then looked surprised she’d gotten me to say it.

“Long enough that pretending I didn’t want it stopped working a while ago,” I say.

“That’s not very specific,” she mutters.

“Years,” I admit. “Off and on. Stronger lately.”

She’s quiet for a long beat. “I thought you didn’t like me,” she says softly. “For years.”

“That’s because you decided that before you ever asked me,” I say. “You built a whole story in your head.”

“I did not.”

“You did,” I say, not unkindly. “You decided I thought you were a burden. Or in the way. Or too much. You took every quiet moment and filled it with the worst possible meaning.”

Her fingers tighten in my hair. “Maybe I had reasons.”

“I know you did,” I say. “But none of them were me.”

Silence again. Heavier now. I can almost hear the wheels turning in her head.

“My track record isn’t great,” she says finally. “With being wanted. Or staying wanted.”

I look down at her, even though I can’t see much. Just the faint outline of her profile in the dim light leaking under the door. “Remi.”

I don’t have the right words for all of it, not tonight. That I’ve watched her shrink herself to fit inside other people’s comfort. That I’ve seen her carry everything alone until she’s shaking. That every part of me wants to find whoever taught her she was “too much” and have a very calm, very pointed conversation with them.

So I start where I can.

“You don’t scare me,” I say quietly. “You never have.”

She lets out a laugh that cracks in the middle. “Give it time.”

“I have,” I tell her. “You’re still here. So am I.”

Her fingers drift lower, tracing over my chest again. I feel the light brush over a jagged scar on my side and wonder if she’s filing that away, another question for another night.

“You really meant it?” she asks after a while. “Earlier. When you said you regretted pulling away this year.”

“Yeah,” I say. No point softening it. “I told myself some distance would be good. That if I didn’t see you as much, maybe you’d fade into the background a little. Maybe I’d stop wondering what you were doing. Who you were with.”

“And?” she prompts, voice small.

“And I didn’t,” I say simply.

She exhales, the sound punching a slow ache into my ribs. “I thought you were avoiding me because you didn’t want me around,” she admits. “Like I was… extra noise. Extra work.”

“No,” I say. “I was avoiding you because I wanted you around more than I thought was smart.”

Her hand stills on my chest. “Oh.”

The word is so quiet it almost gets lost under the wind.

“Also,” I add, because I need to tilt the intensity before I drown in it, “because if Duke thought I was screwing you over, he’d deck me.”

She snorts against my skin. “He’d deck both of us.”

“Probably,” I agree.

We let that sit there, ridiculous and real.

“What happens now?” she asks, barely audible.

The honest answer is: I don’t know. I don’t know what the roads will look like tomorrow. How long the power’s going to hold. Whether she’ll wake up, look at me, and decide this was a holiday glitch she needs to lock in a box and never open again.

Part of me wants to push. Ask what she wants. Tell her what I want. Start pulling the future into focus before it has a chance to blur.

The part of me that’s learned patience knows better. Knows we’re running on no sleep, too much pie, adrenaline, old patterns, and one very intense bad decision that felt a lot like the right one.

“We sleep,” I say. “We see what the world looks like in the morning.”

“That’s it?” she asks.

“For now,” I say. “I’m not saying something you’ll blame on the blizzard later.”

“I was freezing,” she says.

“You’re not now.”

She shifts closer, leg tightening over mine. “No,” she admits. “I’m not.”

I pull the quilt higher around her, tucking it over her shoulders, sealing in everything we just did like the storm can’t touch it.

“Bash?” she whispers after a minute.

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says, voice soft and unguarded. “I don’t… regret it.”

I close my eyes, letting that land wherever it wants inside my chest.

“Me neither,” I say.

Within a few minutes, her breathing evens out for real. No pretending. No faking. Just full-body surrender against me, like I’m allowed to hold her without her bracing for the moment I let go.

I stay awake a little longer, watching the shadows on the ceiling, listening to the storm throw itself against the house.

I didn’t plan on this. Didn’t plan on second chances. Didn’t plan on a night where the heat cuts out and I end up warmer than I’ve been in a long time.

But as the wind howls and the cold presses uselessly at the windows, one thought keeps circling:

For once, I’m grateful the storm didn’t let up.

Because it kept her here.

With me.

The End - Happy Thanksgiving

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: November 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Thanksgiving morning should’ve been simple. Coffee, rolls, maybe a peaceful kitchen.

Instead, Remi is dodging Bash’s eyes, ignoring the heat still buzzing under her skin, and pretending yesterday didn’t pull them both over a line they can’t un-cross.

One pantry. One kiss. One storm that refuses to let either of them run.

Chapter Two

Remi

Thanksgiving Tease

The first thing I register is warmth. The second is the sound of wind.

It scrapes over the side of the house, a low, steady rush, like the storm is still trying to argue with the walls. For a second I forget where I am. The quilt, the unfamiliar lamp, the faint smell of someone else’s laundry detergent. Then the rest catches up.

Guest room. Duke and Rachel’s house.

And Bash on the floor.

I don’t move right away. I just stare at the ceiling and listen.

He’s quiet, the way only someone trained to be quiet can be. No snoring. No shifting. Just breathing. Slow, even, steady. I can’t see him from where I’m lying, but I know exactly where he is. That strip of floor by the wall. The nest of blankets he made like he has done this a thousand times.

‘You are not allowed to find this weirdly intimate. It is just a man sleeping on the floor. It is not a thing.’

A door shuts somewhere in the house. Pipes knock. The faint clatter of something from the kitchen. Duke, probably, acting like it is a normal Thursday and not a snowed-in holiday that got completely rewritten while I wasn’t looking.n overnight.

I roll onto my side carefully, the mattress dipping under me.

Bash is on his back now, one arm bent under his head, the other across his stomach. The blankets are pushed down to his waist, gray t-shirt twisted slightly, exposing a sliver of skin at his hip. His jaw is rough with stubble, hair a little messy, lips parted just enough to make my brain short out for a second.

He looks softer when he’s asleep. Less guarded. Younger somehow.

I should not know that.

His eyelashes twitch like he’s about to wake up, and I snap my eyes back to the ceiling like I’ve been studying it for hours.

He shifts. The blankets rustle. Then his voice, low and gravelly.

“You awake?”

I swallow. “Yeah.”

A beat. “Sleep okay?”

“As okay as anyone can on the edge of a blizzard.”

There’s a hint of a laugh in his exhale. “Fair.”

Silence settles again, but it feels different now. Less loaded with everything we didn’t say last night. More like we’re hovering at the start of something and pretending we aren’t.

“Duke is probably in the kitchen already," Bash says. “You want me to give you a minute before you come out?”

It takes me a second to realize what he is actually asking.

He is giving me space. To get up. To face the day. To not walk out of this room with bed hair and sleep-creased cheeks right behind him like some kind of slow-motion romcom shot. I mean, not that anything happened. 

“Yeah,” I say. “That’d be good.”

“Okay.”

I hear him sit up and blankets shifting but I refuse to look. If I see him stretch, that will be it. Game over.

The floor creaks as he stands. There’s a quiet rustle while he pulls on socks, then the soft brush of his hand against the doorknob.

“Rem?”

“Yeah?”

“Happy Thanksgiving.”

It is simple, but something in the way he says it lands low in my chest.

“You too,” I whisper.

He opens the door and steps out. It closes with a soft click behind him.

I take a breath, then another, then throw the blankets back and get moving before I can start analyzing every word.

Fifteen minutes later I have brushed my teeth, wrestled my hair into something that passes for presentable, and pulled on leggings and a soft sweater that makes me feel marginally more like a functioning human. The house smells like coffee and something that might be burning.

Which means Duke is definitely in the kitchen.

I follow the noise and smoke alarm threat down the hall.

Rachel is standing at the stove in a pair of leggings and an oversized sweatshirt that says GRATEFUL in bold colorful letters, hair in a messy bun, looking like the poster girl for cozy-wife energy. She has a spatula in one hand and a mug in the other.

Duke is in front of the oven wearing an apron that says KISS THE COOK AND BRING PIE, fanning the open door with a dish towel while a thin wisp of smoke curls out.

“Is something on fire?” I ask.

Duke whips around, eyes bright. “Remi, perfect timing. Nothing is on fire. Everything is under control.”

Rachel tilts her head, unimpressed. “He forgot the rolls were in there.”

“I did not forget. I temporarily mis-timed.” He squints at the tray. “They’re rustic.”

“They’re charred,” she says.

I laugh, the sound coming easier than it should at this hour. “Morning.”

Rachel’s face softens like she didn’t already look soft. “Morning, honey. Coffee is behind you. Creamer in the fridge. We have three kinds because I married a loveable disaster.”

Duke points a spatula at me. “Don’t listen to her. I am a visionary.”

“You bought the peppermint mocha one in October,” she says.

“Visionary,” he repeats.

I move around them, muscle memory taking over. Mug, coffee, creamer. The familiarity of their kitchen wraps around me like a second sweater. It’s impossible not to feel comfortable here.

“Bash still asleep?” Duke asks, peering into a pot on the stove now like it will confess something.

“No idea,” I say, lying automatically. “I came down after I got ready.”

Rachel glances at me, like maybe she heard more in that than I meant to put in it, but she lets it go.

Someone steps into the doorway behind me. I don’t have to turn to know who it is. My body clocks him before my brain does. Like it always has. The air shifts, a low hum under my skin.

I turn anyway.

Bash is leaning in the doorway in gray sweatpants and a dark long-sleeve shirt that fits him annoyingly well. His hair is still damp at the ends, like he took a quick shower. There is a faint pillow crease on his forearm where it rested under his head. He looks rumpled and solid and exactly like the kind of man you do not want to be stuck in close quarters with if you value your sanity.

I, of course, don't say any of that out loud.

“Morning,” he says, voice still rough.

“Why does the couch not look slept on?” Duke asks, eyes narrowing like he’s inspecting a crime scene.

Rachel snorts. “Because Bash isn’t an idiot.”

Bash smirks at her. “Floor was better.”

Bash’s eyes find mine and stay there. It’s only a second, but it stretches. There’s a question in it I don’t know how to answer, so I look at the coffee instead.

“Morning,” I say.

He moves past me to the cabinet, reaching up for a mug. He’s close enough that the heat from his body brushes my arm. My heart pulls a stupid trick where it skips and then lands harder.

“You want toast?” Rachel asks him.

“I’ll take whatever there is as long as Duke doesn’t burn it,” he says.

“Rude,” Duke mutters.

“Accurate,” Rachel says.

Breakfast is a blur of clinking plates, overlapping conversation, and stolen glances I pretend not to notice myself making. Duke talks with his hands, Rachel keeps getting up to check something in the oven, and Bash sits across from me, eating like a person who actually remembers to feed himself, listening more than he talks.

He asks me about work, about the plant shop, about whether my boss ever fixed the heater. I roll my eyes and tell him no. He snorts and shakes his head like that’s exactly what he expected.

Somewhere in the middle of Rachel’s story about a client who brought an actual live turkey into the salon, she stands and claps her hands.

“Okay. I need help with prep. Duke is banned from the oven for at least an hour.”

“Unfair,” he says.

“Necessary,” she says.

Her gaze lands on me. “Remi, you want to help me with the sides?”

“Sure,” I say. “Put me to work.”

She smiles. “I like you, I might have to keep you.”

Duke makes a scandalized noise. “You’re married to me.”

“And yet here we are,” she teases.

She starts rattling off instructions. Potatoes, green bean casserole, something involving cranberry sauce that sounds complicated. I move around the kitchen, following her lead. Bash rinses dishes and loads the dishwasher without being asked, like he’s done it a hundred times.

At one point I reach for the cabinet above the fridge where Rachel says the good serving dishes are. I stretch onto my toes, fingers brushing the edge of the platter but not quite catching it.

“Here,” Bash says behind me.

His chest brushes my back for half a second as he reaches up easily, his hand coming down with the dish like it is nothing.

I freeze.

My breath catches. The smell of soap and something warm and distinctly him hits me all at once. My fingers tighten on the counter, knuckles white.

“Thanks,” I say, a little too quickly.

“Anytime,” he quiets back.

Our hands brush when he passes me the dish. Just a graze, skin against skin. It should not matter. It does anyway.

‘Get a grip. It is Thanksgiving. Not a thirst trap.’

“Remi,” Rachel calls, oblivious. “Can you grab the extra spices from the pantry? Top shelf, right side.”

“Yep,” I manage.

I set the dish down and head to the pantry tucked off the kitchen. It is really more of a narrow walk-in, shelves lined with cans, baking supplies, and about six different kinds of crackers Duke has picked up on impulse.

The door falls almost shut behind me, the noise from the kitchen softening.

I spot the spice container on the top shelf. Of course it’s high. I stretch up, fingers reaching. My body tips forward slightly on my toes.

“Need help?” Bash’s voice comes from behind me.

I jump so hard I nearly take out an entire row of cereal boxes.

“Jesus,” I mutter, grabbing the shelf to steady myself. “Do you move silently on purpose?”

“Occupational hazard,” he says.

I feel him step in behind me. The pantry is small, which I knew before, but now it feels tiny. My shoulder almost brushes his chest. If I lean back even an inch, I will hit him.

He reaches up, arm near my head, fingers closing around the spice container like it’s nothing. His body heat rolls over my back, steady and solid.

“Here,” he says, but he does not move away immediately.

I turn to take it from him, and that’s when everything goes sideways.

The space is too tight. My hand hits his wrist instead of the container. His other hand goes to my hip automatically to steady me. The door swings another inch closed, dimming the light.

We both stop.

His fingers are warm on my hip through the thin fabric of my leggings. His eyes drop to my mouth, then flick back up. I feel the shift in the air like a click.

I should step back.

He should let go.

Neither of us does.

“Remi,” he says, my name more exhale than sound.

My pulse spikes. “Yeah?”

“This is a bad idea,” he says quietly.

“Probably,” I whisper.

We hold there for another heartbeat, hanging over a line. Then something in me snaps.

I grab the front of his shirt and pull him down.

The first brush of his mouth against mine is messy. Less kiss, more collision. All the held-back energy from the last twenty-four hours slams into that single point of contact.

He makes a low sound in his chest that I feel more than hear. His hand tightens on my hip, the other coming up to frame my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek as he angles my head and deepens the kiss.

It stops being awkward after that.

It gets greedy.

His mouth moves over mine like he’s been dying to do this for a long time and finally stopped telling himself no. I open for him without thinking, without planning, letting him in. Heat floods me, sharp and immediate.

My hands slide up his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. He presses me gently back against the shelves, careful but close, like he is trying very hard not to actually crush me.

One of his hands slips under the hem of my sweater at my waist, palm finding bare skin. The contact is a shock. I gasp into his mouth, and his fingers flex like he wants more.

“This is…” I breathe, breaking just enough to speak.

“Insane?” he asks against my lips.

“Something,” I say.

He huffs a laugh that dies into another kiss. He tastes like coffee and toothpaste and something warm that is just him. Every pass of his mouth, every small drag of his teeth, sends sparks straight through me.

I slide a hand up into his hair, tugging lightly. He groans, low and rough, and kisses me harder.

Somewhere in the house, a door closes. Footsteps. A muffled laugh. It all feels a million miles away.

His thumb strokes the edge of my ribs. My leg shifts between his without me planning it. He inhales sharply, his body reacting.

“Remi,” he says again, like a warning and a prayer both.

“Yeah?”

“This is really a bad idea.”

“I know,” I say. “Keep going.”

His forehead rests against mine for a second like he is trying to get himself together. Then he kisses me again anyway.

We are still tangled up in each other when it happens.

“Remi!” Duke’s voice barrels through the quiet like a marching band. “Where’d you go? Did the spices eat you?”

Bash jerks back like he has been hit with cold water. I grab the shelf to steady myself again, lips buzzing, breath ragged.

“In here!” I call, trying to sound normal and absolutely failing. My voice comes out high and thin. “Found them!”

Bash steps back properly, putting actual space between us. His chest rises and falls like he’s just run a marathon. He looks at my mouth, then away, jaw tight.

I grab the spice container from his hand. My fingers are shaking.

“You should go first,” I whisper.

He nods once and slips past me, shoulder brushing mine. By the time I follow him out, he’s crossed the kitchen and is at the sink, running water like he has been there the whole time.

Rachel glances over her shoulder. “Find it?”

“Yep,” I say, setting the container on the counter. “Top shelf. Your pantry is a death trap, by the way.”

Duke grins, oblivious. “Heyyy, I  love my pantry.”

I do not look at Bash.

I can feel him though. Every time I move, it is like there’s an invisible line stretched between us. I keep my hands busy. Stirring, chopping, anything to keep me grounded.

At the table later, the four of us sit around a ridiculous amount of food, the storm still raging outside the windows. Duke carves the turkey like it is a ceremony. Rachel makes everyone say one thing they are grateful for.

When it is my turn, I say, “Found family.”

When it is Bash’s, he pauses for a heartbeat too long.

“Second chances,” he says.

My fork stills.

I finally risk a look at him and he’s already looking at me.

No one else seems to notice.

Of course they don’t.

No one else was in the pantry.

No one else felt the way his hand shook just a little when it touched my skin.

Bash

Didn’t Plan on This

Dinner feels like a trap.

Not the food, Rachel cooks like she’s feeding an army and a therapy group at the same time. Not Duke, who’s halfway through telling some story about setting a grill on fire in college.

It’s Remi.

Specifically, the way she keeps not looking at me.

Which means she’s thinking about me.

Which means I’m screwed.

I cut into my turkey, trying to keep my face neutral, but my brain won’t shut up.

Her mouth is still swollen from where my lips were pressed against hers.

Her breathing was uneven for a solid minute in that pantry. And she hasn’t said a word to me since.

I lift my gaze for half a second.

She’s already looking at me. Of course she is.

Her fork pauses halfway to her mouth and her knee bumps the underside of the table. She looks away so fast it could’ve been an accident, if I hadn’t felt the same panic in my own chest.

Rachel doesn’t notice a damn thing. She’s too busy lecturing Duke about using the wrong pan for the green beans.

I should be grateful.

Remi shifts in her seat like she’s trying to get comfortable and failing. Her hair falls forward, hiding part of her face, and she tucks it behind her ear with a hand that’s not nearly steady enough.

I know what she’s remembering.

I’m remembering it too.

Her back against the shelf. Her fingers curling in my shirt.

Her soft little inhale right before she kissed me back like it meant something.

I clear my throat and force myself to eat. 

Chew. 

Swallow. 

Act normal.

I’m fine on battlefields and with broken-down machinery.

But sitting across from a woman who kissed me like I was the last man on earth and is now pretending she didn’t?

Apparently not my area of expertise. Or maybe she regrets it.

Duke gestures wildly with a roll. “Bash, tell her! I did not almost burn the eyebrows off that fire marshal.”

I blink. “You absolutely did.”

“Traitor.” He stuffs the roll in his mouth.

Rachel groans. “I swear, one day you’re going to set our house on fire.”

Remi finally cracks a tiny smile at that.

It’s not directed at me, but it still hits the same.

She reaches for the gravy boat at the same time I do. Our fingers brush again.

She jerks her hand back like the porcelain burned her.

Neither Rachel or Duke see it. 

The storm outside probably sees more than they do.

I slide the gravy toward her. “Here.”

“Thanks,” she says, barely audible.

Her cheeks are pink and her pulse is visible on her throat.

I’m screwed. Completely. One kiss and she’s already under my skin again.

Dinner ends with Duke declaring he needs pie before he can walk straight. Rachel smacks him and tells him to sit while she gets it.

Remi stands to help.

So do I too.

Our chairs scrape the floor at the same time and we both freeze. Then we both pretend we didn’t.

Rachel waves us off. “Nope. Guests don’t clean.”

“Some of us were raised with manners,” I say.

“You are still a guest in my kitchen,” she counters.

Duke scoffs at me. “She’s right. Sit down, Floor Boy.”

Remi snorts softly.

It’s ridiculous that hearing her laugh at me or otherwise, feels as right as breathing oxygen.

Pie happens. Small talk happens.

And Remi avoids eye contact like it’s hazardous material.

When it’s finally over, she stands and carries her plate to the sink. Rachel protests again; Remi ignores her.

I take my plate over too and we end up shoulder to shoulder at the sink.

Too close.

Way too close.

She’s washing, I’m drying. Steam rises, warm against the chill from the window.

Her sleeve brushes my arm every few seconds.

Finally, under her breath, she mutters, “We’re not talking about it.”

I keep my eyes on the plate. “Okay.”

“We’re not,” she repeats, like she’s convincing herself.

“Okay,” I say again.

She huffs, frustrated. “Can you not—”

“Not what?” I look at her.

She realizes too late that was a mistake. She swallows. Hard.

“Can you not look at me like that?” she whispers.

“Like what?”

Her voice drops even lower. “Like you’re still in that pantry.”

I set the plate down and turn my body toward her.

Slow and deliberate.

“I’m trying not to.”

“That’s not—” She stops, flustered. “That doesn’t help.”

“Wasn’t trying to help.”

She closes her eyes for a second, exhaling through her nose. “Bash…”

Her tone is warning, soft and messy at the edges.

“You kissed me,” I say quietly.

“You kissed me back,” she shoots back.

“Semantics.”

She glares at the sink like it personally offended her.

Rachel walks in, humming, and Remi immediately steps six feet away like she’s avoiding a tripwire.

I pick up another dish so I don’t have to watch her flee.

When the kitchen finally clears again, Duke turns on football. Rachel curls up beside him. Remi escapes to the hallway to ‘check the weather.’

I give it a minute.

Then I follow.

She’s standing by the front window, arms crossed. Snow is coming down in slow heavy sheets, glowing under the porch lights.

When she hears my steps, she doesn’t turn around. “You can’t do that again.”

“Do what?”

“That.” She gestures vaguely. “Whatever you’re doing.”

“I’m standing.”

“Bash.”

I move closer but stop a respectful distance behind her. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re looking at me.”

“You’re hard not to look at.”

She inhales sharply. “That’s the problem.”

I let that sit between us. Let her feel the honesty of it.

“We should forget it happened,” she says.

“We won’t,” I answer.

She finally faces me, eyes bright from the reflection of the snow. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

She shakes her head, frustrated, overwhelmed, gorgeous in a way she has no idea she is.

“We can’t do this,” she whispers.

“Okay,” I say quietly.

Not agreeing but acquiescing to what she said. Just acknowledging the fear sitting behind her ribs.

Her throat works.

She steps around me, claiming she’s tired, that she needs to change, that tomorrow is another day.

But when she walks away, she glances back once.

Just once.

Like she’s checking that I’m still there.

And when our eyes catch again in the dim hallway, something in my chest tightens with a snap I feel all the way down to my hands.

We’re not done.

Not even close.

Come back tomorrow for chapter three

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: November 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

 Chapter One

Remi POV

The Blizzard Invitation

The airport is absolute mayhem dressed up in Christmas lights.

It’s not even Thanksgiving yet and people are already losing their minds. The departures board is a wall of red. CANCELLED. DELAYED. CANCELLED. My flight is right there in the middle like a personal middle finger.

I stare at it for a full ten seconds like maybe if I glare hard enough, it’ll change. 

It doesn’t. 

My phone buzzes in my palm. Duke, because of course it is. I don’t even get a hello. 

“Tell me you’re not still sitting on that sad plastic chair.” 

“I’m still sitting on that sad plastic chair.” I sass back.

He exhales like he’s personally offended by the weather. “Remi. Babycakes. No. Absolutely not. You are not spending Thanksgiving in an airport.”

 “Duke, it’s fine. I’ll find a hotel. I have points. I can eat a turkey sandwich in bed and pretend it’s festive.”

“You are not eating a turkey sandwich alone in a hotel like some tragic indie movie character. Come here.”

“Here where?” 

“Our place. Rachel’s already got three pies going. I’m doing the turkey. There will be wine. There will be carbs. There will be heat.” 

I blink. “Duke, I don’t want to intrude on your first married Thanksgiving.” 

“You’re not intruding. You’re family. Which means I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.” I hear him shuffle, like he’s already moving around the kitchen. “And before you get cute and say no, I’ll remind you I once drove two hours to pick you up from that plant store because your car died and you ‘didn’t want to bother anyone.’”

“That was different.” 

“It was not different. Remi, I swear to God, if I have to come to that airport and physically kidnap you, I will.” 

A laugh slips out before I can stop it. I cover my mouth like that’s going to hide it from the rest of the terminal. “You’re insane.”

“Correct. Now get your bag and go to the pick up area. I’m ten minutes out. I’ll be in the stupid Subaru because the truck is in the shop.” 

“You’re already on the way?” 

“Obviously.” I can see him roll his eyes as if he were standing in front of me. 

I shake my head, warmth crawling into my chest in spite of myself. “Okay. Fine. I’m coming.” 

“That’s what I like to hear. Happy pre-Thanksgiving, babe. Love you.” 

“Love you too.” 

The call ends and I just… stand there for a second. I shouldn’t be surprised. Duke has never been subtle about loving his people. He collects humans like he collects dumb coffee mugs. You’re his and that’s that. 

Still, I wasn’t planning on this. 

I was planning on a quick flight, a quick hug with my aunt, and a quick escape when the inevitable ‘so are you dating anyone?’ conversation started. I was planning on keeping the holiday low-stakes. Safe.

Now I’m being rerouted into a whole different kind of danger.

Because Duke Langley is not just my best friend. 

He’s also Sebastian Langley’s little brother. 

And I have not seen Bash in almost a year, which is a long time considering I spent most of my twenties bumping into him everywhere. Sundays at their place. Random bar nights. Duke’s birthday cookouts. That one New Year’s where Bash kissed my cheek at midnight and my brain straight up blue-screened. 

Bash has always been… there. Like a shadow that knows exactly how to make you aware of it. 

Older brother. Ex-military. Tall in that effortless way men are tall when they don’t need to prove anything. Quiet until he’s not. The kind of guy who looks at you like he’s measuring distance and impact. 

The kind of guy you don’t want to get stuck in a house with during a storm, because you’d do something stupid and you’d prefer to keep your dignity intact.

I tell myself I’m being dramatic. Duke didn’t say Bash would be there. 

Which means he probably isn’t. 

Which means I’m fine.

I drag my suitcase through baggage claim, out into the freezing night air, and spot Duke’s Subaru before he even pulls into the pickup lane. Bright headlights. A familiar ridiculous bumper sticker. Duke’s grinning face leaning toward the passenger window like he’s about to announce he’s won something. 

“Remi!” he yells, like we’re not five feet apart. 

“Duke!” I yell back, because I’m apparently just as dumb. 

He hops out and wraps me up before I can protest, lifting me clean off my feet. He smells like cold air and the cinnamon candle he always burns in his car, like some kind of human holiday commercial. 

“You’re freezing,” he says into my hair. 

“Because you kidnapped me in a snowstorm.” 

“Worth it.” He drops me, takes my suitcase, and shoves it into the trunk. “Come on. Rachel is already calling this a rescue mission.” 

The drive to their house is slow, the roads are slick, snow falling in thick lazy sheets. The world looks softer under it, quieter. Like everything is on mute. 

We talk about nothing and everything. The airport mess. Duke’s turkey strategy. Rachel’s new obsession with homemade rolls. My attempt at dating this year that lasted two and a half weeks and ended with me blocking a guy who thought ‘good morning, beautiful’ counted as a personality.

By the time we pull into their driveway, my shoulders feel less tight. I don’t even realize how badly I needed safe people until I’m with them again. 

Their house is a small two-story rental near the lake, with a string of lights around the porch that Duke absolutely did not put up straight. Snow clings to the railing. A wreath hangs a little crooked on the door. 

Rachel swings it open before we’re even up the steps. 

“Remi!” she squeals, and I’m swallowed into her hug immediately.

 Rachel Langley is comfort in human form. She’s the kind of woman who makes you feel like you’ve known her forever even if you haven’t. I met her three years ago and instantly understood why Duke fell. 

She pulls back, hands on my cheeks. “Are you okay? I was watching the weather and losing my mind.” 

“I’m fine,” I say. “Mostly just annoyed.” 

“There’s wine,” she says seriously, like it’s medical care. “And your favorite charcuterie stuff because Duke is the world’s most extra roommate.” 

She pauses, then laughs at herself. “Husband. I mean husband. I keep forgetting I upgraded.”

“Same thing.”  They both laugh. 

I step inside and the house smells like butter and garlic and something sweet I can’t place yet. The heat hits my face. My fingers start thawing.

 Rachel takes my coat. Duke steals my boots and shouts, “Food first, questions later!” even though he has never once waited on questions in his life. 

I follow them into the kitchen, already relaxing. Already letting my guard start to fall. 

And then the front door opens again.

The door didn’t open gently. The wind shouldering its way in like it belongs here. 

A boot thuds. Then another. Heavy. Certain.  

My body reacts before my brain catches up.  My spine goes straight and my stomach flips like I’ve missed a step.

I turn and there he is, in the doorway shaking snow off his coat. Dark hair damp from the storm, jaw dusted with cold. There’s a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, and a quiet exhaustion on his face that somehow makes him look even better, which is deeply unfair to my nervous system. 

Sebastian Langley. 

Bash. 

He lifts his head, and his eyes hit mine. And for a second, nothing happens. No sound. No movement. Just that look. 

Like he wasn’t expecting me either.  Then his mouth twitches at the corner, not a smile, not quite, but close enough to make heat crawl up my throat. 

“Well,” he says, voice rough from cold and travel. “Look who we have here.” 

Duke claps his hands like a cartoon villain. “Surprise!” 

I shoot him a look that could melt the siding. “You didn’t tell me he was coming.” 

“You didn’t ask,” he sings. 

Rachel swats him with a dish towel. “He just got here. His car slid on the 95. He’s fine, but he called us from a rest stop and Duke made him come home.” 

Bash drops the duffel by the stairs and walks in like he owns the place. He’s taller than I remember. Broader too, like the year apart put a little more steel in his shoulders. 

Or maybe I’m just noticing harder because I’m trapped in a house with him while the weather tries to shut the world down.

He steps closer, unzipping his coat. 

“Hey, Remi,” he says, like my name is something he knows by touch. 

“Hey,” I manage to get out without choking on the word. 

He looks me over in that slow careful way of his, like he’s checking for frostbite or something. Almost like he’s taking inventory without meaning to. 

“You okay?” he asks. 

“I’m fine. Just… stranded.” 

“Yeah.” A beat. His eyes flick to my mouth and back up. “Guess we both are.” 

Duke barrels through the moment with a grin. “Okay! Thanksgiving emergency squad is assembled. “Okay, sleeping assignments!” Duke says, too loudly. “Remi, guest room. Bash, couch. I’m in charge, so nobody argue.”

Rachel smacks his arm. “You’re not in charge.”

He points at her triumphantly. “Which is why holidays require structure.”

Bash’s mouth twitches again. He looks past Duke to me, like he wants to say something else. Like he has ten things sitting on his tongue.

But he doesn’t.

 Instead he nods once. “I’m gonna grab a shower.” 

Rachel points up the stairs. “Second door on the right. Towels are already in there.” 

He disappears upstairs, taking the cold with him, and I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until he’s gone. Duke is watching me. The little shit. 

“What?” I say.

 “Nothing,” he says too fast. “I’m just happy you’re here.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

Rachel bumps my shoulder gently. “Come sit. You look like you’ve been running on fumes.” 

She’s not wrong. I slide onto a kitchen stool, letting the warmth sink in. Duke pours me wine like it’s his love language. 

I take a sip, trying to settle my heartbeat. It works for about thirty seconds. Then I hear the shower turn on upstairs and my brain goes stupid in a way I do not appreciate.

I’m not supposed to be thinking about Bash in a towel. I’m not supposed to be replaying the last time I saw him. His hand on my lower back when he guided me through a crowded bar. The low laugh when I teased him about his ‘dad music.’ The way he looked like he wanted to say something and then chose not to. 

He always chooses not to. 

I tell myself this is fine. It’s just four adults stuck in a house during a storm. Duke and Rachel are married. Bash and I are just… here. Separate. Safe.

Nothing is going to happen.

There is literally a storm outside. Except I already know how Bash looks at me. And I already know how I feel when he does. 

By the time he comes downstairs, hair still damp, gray t-shirt clinging to his chest like it was designed to embarrass me personally, I’m on my second glass of wine and pretending my pulse isn’t doing gymnastics. 

He pauses in the kitchen doorway, eyes going soft when he sees the setup. Duke is already eating cheese. Rachel is laughing, and I’m trying to disappear into my sweater.

Something shifts in his face, small and not quite noticeable. Unless you are a psycho who has analyzed his face more times than acceptable over the years… like I have.

Then he walks over and takes a beer from the fridge like this is exactly where he belongs, and slides into the seat across from me. 

“So,” he says, eyes steady on mine. “You really weren’t gonna tell anyone your flight got canceled?” 

I blink. “How did you know?” 

“Duke called me on the way to get you,” he says. “He told me you were stranded and refusing to ask for help, which sounds exactly like you. Apparently you tried to handle the whole thing alone until he bullied you into letting him come get you.”

Rachel points a knife at me. “Don’t deny it. 

I lift my hands. “Okay, okay. I just… didn’t want to make it a thing.” 

Bash watches me for a second longer than necessary. “You don’t have to do everything alone, Remi.” 

The way he says it, low and certain, lands somewhere under my ribs.  I look away first. 

“Alright, message received,” I say. “Next time I’ll actually tell someone when I need help before everything goes sideways.”

Duke grins. “That’s the spirit.” 

Bash’s stare lingers on me like he doesn’t buy it. Like he sees past it. 

And God help me, I feel seen. 

Outside, the wind rattles the windows. The lights flicker once, then steady. 

Inside, the air feels too warm all of a sudden. 

I take another sip of wine, trying to play normal. 

Bash leans back in his chair, stretching his arms like he’s settling in for the long haul, and the hem of his shirt lifts just enough to show a slice of tan skin. 

My brain fully short-circuits. 

I stand up too fast. “I’m gonna go unpack.” 

Rachel nods. “Guest room’s ready. Second door on the left.” 

“Thanks,” I say. 

I can feel Bash’s eyes on my back as I walk out of the kitchen. I don’t look at him. I don’t trust what my face would do if I did. 

I drag my suitcase down the hall and into the guest room, shutting the door behind me a little harder than necessary. 

The room is small and cozy, with a quilt folded at the end of the bed and a little lamp on the dresser. The window looks out onto the backyard where snow is already covering the patio furniture. 

I set my bag down, press my hands to my cheeks. 

Okay. 

Breathe. 

This is Duke and Rachel’s house. Bash is his brother. Off-limits. You’re here for Thanksgiving, not to spiral over a man who’s been living in the ‘almost’ category of your life forever. 

I unzip my suitcase, start pulling out clothes, trying to focus on anything else. 

A soft knock hits the door. 

“Remi?” Bash’s voice, muffled through the wood. 

My heart does a stupid leap. “Yeah?” 

“Duke put me on the couch,” Bash says. “But that thing’s too small for me to sleep on without breaking it.”

He pauses, eyes steady on mine. “Would you mind if I crashed on the floor in here instead? I know sharing space stresses you out, so if that makes it worse, just say no.”

I freeze. 

The fact that he knows that, that he remembers that, hits me harder than it should. 

“I’m fine,” I say. “You don’t have to sleep on the couch.” 

“I’m not asking your permission because I have to,” he says quietly. “I’m asking because I want you comfortable.” 

My throat goes tight and I open the door a crack. He’s standing there in the hallway, hands in his pockets, still damp-haired, looking like a storm in human form and somehow also like the calm after it. 

His eyes drop to mine. “Rem.” 

He hasn’t called me that in years.

I swallow. “Really, I’m fine. If that’s easier for you, then… yeah. I can deal with that.”

His gaze skims my face, slowly. Like he’s checking whether I mean it or not. 

Then he nods. “Okay.” 

Neither of us moves for a second. 

The air between us feels thick, charged in a way that has nothing to do with winter. 

“Okay,” I say quietly. “I’m going to get ready for bed then.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “I’ll grab some blankets and… set up.” 

He steps back and I shut the door, leaning against it like my legs forgot their job. 

Okay. Great. Fantastic. This is already going so normal. And it’s only Chapter One.

 Bash

 Didn’t Plan on This

 

I stand outside Remi’s door for a second after she shuts it, listening to the quiet on the other side like it’s a new language I’m supposed to understand.

The hallway smells like pie spices and clean laundry. The house is warm in that too-warm holiday way, where the heat is working overtime because Duke can’t handle anyone being cold for more than thirty seconds.

I should go back downstairs. Grab a blanket. Find a way to make the couch work. Suffer through it like an adult.

But I already know I won’t sleep out there.

That couch is small. I’m not. It’s not complicated. Duke wanted to play hero for half a second and now we’re here. I’m sure he knew what he was doing. The couch setup was never going to happen.

I know I shouldn’t even be thinking about staying in here. She hates sharing space when she’s overwhelmed, always has. But the idea of leaving her in this room alone sits wrong in my chest, and something in me pulls toward her anyway.

I also asked for the floor because it lets me keep control of where I am, what I’m doing, and how close I get to her.

That part is selfish.

I head down the stairs quietly, the wood creaking under my socked feet. The kitchen lights are dim now. Duke and Rachel are at the table in that loose, sleepy after-dinner haze, both holding mugs like they’re anchored by them.

Duke grins when he sees me. “There he is. Couch king.”

“Yeah,” I say. “About that. You got any extra blankets?”

Rachel nods immediately and stands, already moving toward the linen closet. “I’ve got you.”

Duke leans back in his chair, studying me with that annoying little brother look that sees too much. “You sure you’re good on the couch? I mean, you’re built like a refrigerator.”

“Thanks.”

“That’s not an insult. It’s a fact.” He tips his mug toward me. “Just don’t break my furniture.”

“I won’t.”

Rachel comes back with a stack of blankets and a pillow. She sets them on the counter like she’s handing me a care package.

“Remi settled in okay?” she asks.

“Yeah.” I hesitate. “She’s tired.”

Rachel gives a small nod, like she understands the rest of what I don’t say. She always has. “Good. I’m sure she will sleep well.”

“I’m sure she will.”

Duke yawns big and dramatic. “Alright. We’re tapping out. I’m going to dream about turkey and victory.”

“Victory?” I repeat.

He points at the pies cooling on the counter. “I survived my first married Thanksgiving with no injuries or fires. That’s a victory.”

Rachel laughs, kisses his cheek, and hooks her arm through his. “Come on, holiday hero.”

They start toward the stairs, Rachel pausing to squeeze my shoulder as she passes. “Night, Bash.”

“Night Rach.”

Duke stops at the first step and turns back. “Try not to be grumpy in the morning. Remi’s already stressed. Don’t make her feel like she’s in the way.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

He squints at me like he’s deciding if he believes that. Then he nods, satisfied enough, and disappears upstairs with his wife.

The house goes quiet in a way most places don’t. It’s not empty quiet. It’s just… soft. Safe. Like the storm outside is doing all the shouting so the rest of the world gets to breathe.

I gather the blankets and pillow and head back down the hall. Remi’s door is still shut. Light glows faintly under the crack.

I knock once, soft.

“Remi?”

“Yeah,” she answers immediately, like she’s been listening for me.

“I grabbed blankets.” I keep my voice low. “I’m coming in to set up.”

A beat.

“Okay.”

I turn the knob and open the door slowly, giving her space to be wherever she wants to be.

She’s sitting on the bed with her suitcase open beside her, hair loose, in an oversized sleep shirt that hits mid-thigh, the kind that shouldn’t be sexy but absolutely is on her. Her eyes slide to me, then away fast. Like she’s trying too hard not to look.

She’s not great at pretending.

The air in the room is warm but still feels cooler than the rest of the house. Maybe because we’re in here together.

I step inside and close the door behind me. Not all the way. Just enough to keep the hallway light from spilling in.

“Thanks,” she says, voice soft.

“Yeah.”

I crouch by the wall opposite the bed, laying out the blankets in a neat line so I’m not taking up space in the center. Something about it feels familiar. Like camping or deployment. Like any other night I’ve tried to sleep with my guard half up.

Except none of those nights had Remi ten feet away in just a t-shirt, watching me out of the corner of her eye.

I unroll the first blanket on the floor, then another on top, making a cushion thick enough to actually matter. The pillow goes at the top.

Remi shifts behind me. I don’t look back, mostly because I’m trying to keep my head in a place that isn’t dangerous.

“You know you don’t have to sleep on the hard floor, right?” she says.

“I know,” I answer, but I don’t move. She’s sitting cross-legged, elbows on her knees. There’s a faint crease between her brows like she’s still trying to carry the whole world by herself. “It’s fine. I’ve slept on worse.”

She makes a face. “That doesn’t mean you should.”

A laugh almost leaves me. I swallow it back. “You worried about me, Hollis?”

Her cheeks pink up. “I’m just saying I don’t want you miserable because of me.”

My chest tightens at that. Because that’s Remi to the core. She’ll accept help, but only if she’s convinced it doesn’t cost anyone else something.

“You’re not the reason,” I say. “The couch is the reason.”

“Still.”

I sit back on my heels, the blankets between us feeling like a thin line of safety. “You’re not in the way, Remi.”

She goes still.

I shouldn’t have said it that directly. But it’s true, and pretending it isn’t doesn’t help either of us.

Her gaze lifts to mine for a second. There’s something in it that looks like old exhaustion. Old pride. Old hurt that made her decide she’d rather rely on herself than risk being a burden.

I know that look.

Because it’s the same look she had on her face the day she helped Duke move into his first apartment and then tried to leave before we could feed her.

The same look she had that night in the grocery store parking lot, standing beside her locked car with her keys inside, pretending it wasn’t a big deal until I showed up and she finally exhaled.

The same look she has right now.

She clears her throat like she’s trying to wipe the moment away. “Okay. I’m gonna… try to sleep.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll keep my back turned. I’m not here to make you uncomfortable.”

“You’re not.” She says it too fast.

I nod, turning back to the blanket stack while she moves around behind me. I hear the rustle of fabric, the soft slide of a drawer. The bathroom door opens and closes again. The sink runs for a second.

I focus hard on anything that isn’t her. The wall. The baseboard. The stupid little lamp on the dresser. The snow ticking against the window.

But I can’t not hear her.

Every sound is a reminder she’s here. Close. Real.

‘You are thirty years old. You can handle sleeping on a floor without losing your mind.’

I’ve slept through gunfire and freezing rain and the kind of silence that feels like an animal waiting to bite. But this is different. This is a quiet that makes you hyper-aware of everything you’re pretending not to want.

I hear her climb into bed, the mattress dipping. The blanket slides across the sheets.

Then nothing. A long beat passes.

“You good?” she asks softly into the dark.

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

I glance up at the ceiling. “Yeah, Remi.”

She goes quiet again.

The kind of quiet that isn’t empty. It’s loaded.

I shift onto my side, facing the wall like I promised. The floor is firm under me, but the blankets help. The pillow smells like laundry detergent and maybe Rachel’s vanilla candle. It’s not uncomfortable.

What’s uncomfortable is the way my body still feels like it’s on alert for her. The way I’m aware of her breathing over there. Slow. Controlled. Like she’s pretending she fell asleep instantly.

She doesn’t.

Neither do I.

Minutes pass. Maybe more. I don’t check my phone because I don’t want to light up the room.

The wind rattles the window. Somewhere in the house, a pipe ticks. The storm outside keeps dumping snow like it’s trying to bury the world in one night.

Remi shifts in bed and I feel it like a live wire.

Finally, she speaks again, voice barely there. “Thanks for… being normal about all this.”

I stare at the wall, my throat tight. “What does that mean?”

“It means you didn’t make it weird.” She pauses. “You could’ve.”

“So could you.”

She huffs a quiet laugh. “Fair.”

Silence stretches again.

Then, softer, she says, “I’m glad you’re here.”

My chest goes still for a second, like it doesn’t know what to do with that.

I don’t think she realizes what she said. Or maybe she does and that’s why her voice shook.

Either way, I don’t let it sit unanswered.

“Me too,” I say.

It’s simple. True. And way more dangerous than either of us wants to admit right now.

I hear her breathe in, then out, slow and careful.

After that, she quiets for real. Her breathing changes, deepening. Her body relaxes in the bed.

I stay awake a little longer, staring at the wall like it will give me answers.

This was not part of the plan.

I didn’t plan to be here. I didn’t plan to see her. I didn’t plan to end up on the floor of a room she’s sleeping in, trying to pretend I’m not still off-balance by the sound of her voice when she’s tired.

‘Didn’t plan on this’ doesn’t even cover it.

Outside, the storm keeps coming down hard. There’s no leaving tomorrow if it doesn’t let up.

Which means I’m stuck here, in this house, with her.

And I’m not sure if that’s the worst thing that could happen to me.

Or the best.

Come back tomorrow for chapter two

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: November 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

When the weather traps them, the tension does the rest.

Holidays are already emotional minefields, so when you add a surprise snowstorm, a full house, and one very inconvenient attraction… forced proximity becomes the ultimate Thanksgiving trope.

It gives us:

• Nowhere to run

• One couch, one guest room, too many people

• Wine-loosened confessions

• Accidental intimacy

• Secrets slipping in the quiet 

Holiday forced proximity isn’t just a setup. It’s pressure. Heat. Vulnerability wrapped in cozy sweaters. 

It’s two people caught between what they shouldn’t want and what they can’t ignore — and readers (all of us) devour it like the last piece of pumpkin pie. 

If you’ve been following Kelsey and Cade this week, you already know this short story is every brand of dangerous, messy, can’t-look-away tension we love around here.

And because this is our final post for the week, let’s wrap it all up with the real reason this duo hits so hard:

Here are the 10 micro-tropes that made their story burn:

1. The Hands-On Save

Not grand heroics — just a steady hand closing around a wrist at the exact second she needs it.

2. “I Don’t Want You… But I Do” Energy

Both of them insist they’re not interested.

Both of them lie terribly.

3. The Breath-Hold Look

That stare that lingers a second too long.

Soft. Sharp. Loaded.

4. Call-Out Softness

He tells her the truth she doesn’t want to hear… quietly.

And somehow it lands deeper than any shout.

5. Too Calm to Be Unaffected

He never reacts.

Except for that tiny jaw tick that gives him away every time.

6. She’s Chaos, He’s the Brakes

She pushes every boundary.

He holds every line — until she corners him.

7. “I’m Not Jealous” Lies

She flirts with someone else.

He pretends he doesn’t care.

Absolutely does.

8. One Kiss, One Regret (Kind Of)

He loses control for half a second.

Kisses her like he meant it.

Then backs away like it was a mistake.

9. The Quiet Line That Cuts

He doesn’t yell.

Doesn’t posture.

Just drops low, steady lines that tear through all her defenses.

10. The Girl No One Sees — Except Him

Everyone believes her wild-girl act.

Cade is the only one who looks past it.

It’s messy. It’s hot.

It’s tender in the quiet places she doesn’t want anyone to notice.

And honestly? I kind of love them for it.

If you missed any part of the story, just head back a few posts — but buckle in.

This one sizzles.

 He was supposed to be a mistake she burned through and left behind. Instead, Cade pulls Kelsey into the shadows of his workshop and strips away more than just her dress, giving her the kind of rough, reverent, no-nonsense attention she’s never let herself want. Between filthy promises, steady hands, and a man who refuses to let her hide behind the “wild girl” act, Kelsey feels something she doesn’t have a script for: safe. By the time the dust settles, she’s walking out in his T-shirt, no panties, and a quiet, terrifying hope that one day at a time with him might actually be enough.

Chapter 4

Kelsey

Burn Me Right

Somewhere in the blur of heat and hands and mouths, the world shifts again. The bench is no longer behind me. Something softer is. The couch on the side of the workshop, old and broken-in, the one I’ve seen him collapse onto between loads.

He settles over me, braced on his forearms, careful with his weight. His breath is ragged now too. Good. I like him like this. Less in control. More honest.

“You still sure?” he asks, even now.

“Yes.” My answer is immediate. “Stop asking me that and do something about it.”

His answering smile is wicked and fond all at once. “Bossy,” he murmurs. “Thought that was my job.”

He steps in, hands sliding to the hem of my dress. His fingers brush my thighs as he gathers the fabric, and my breath stutters. He doesn’t rush, not even a little. He lifts it slowly, inch by inch, knuckles grazing my hips, my ribs, the underside of my breasts, until he pulls it over my head and drops it somewhere behind me.

His gaze drags down my body, lingering on my bare chest. The sound he makes is low and appreciative, the kind that curls heat between my legs.

“No bra,” he says, voice dipping. “Do you have any idea what that does to me?”

I barely get a breath in before he hooks his thumbs in the sides of my panties and pulls them down, slow and deliberate, letting the backs of his fingers trace my skin all the way to my ankles. I lift my hips, letting him drag the lace down my thighs, unsteady enough that he steadies me with one hand braced at my hip.

Then he stands, and for a beat, we just stare at each other. Breathing the same air. Want vibrating between us like a live wire.

“Your turn,” I whisper.

Something hungry flickers across his face.

He grabs the bottom of his shirt and pulls it off in one clean motion.

And I forget how to breathe.

He looks like trouble. Muscles carved from real work, tattoos scattered down his arms, a spattering of dark hair across his chest that makes my knees go weak. He’s solid. Broad. Older yes, but in the best possible way. The kind of body that doesn’t come from gyms or vanity, just life and grit and discipline.

“Oh my god,” I blurt before I can stop myself.

His mouth curves. “That a complaint?”

“Hardly.” I say as I shake my head slowly from side to side.

He steps closer, unbuttoning his jeans while I watch like I’ve never seen a man undress before. He shoves them down, then his briefs, and my pulse jumps hard enough that I feel it everywhere.

Seeing him like this is a lot to take in. He’s rough around the edges, with heat in his eyes and a body built to pin me exactly where he wants me. The shock of it hits so hard my thighs clench and my eyes close again.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Eyes on me,” he says, voice rough enough to drag heat straight down my spine. “I want to watch you fall apart.”

And then he gives me exactly what I asked for.

The rest of the world fades out the second he pushes inside me.

The first slow slide knocks a sound out of my chest I don’t even recognize. He fills me in a way that feels impossible at first. Thick, deep, stretching me until my breathing shatters. My fingers clutch at his shoulders, nails dragging across warm skin as my hips try to adjust around him.

“Easy,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t move. He holds there, buried to the hilt, letting my body pull tight around his. His forehead drops to mine, breath rough against my mouth. “Feel that?”

I can’t even nod. I just breathe his name, broken and thin.

He moves then. Slow. Controlled. That first long stroke back followed by another that sinks him right inside me again, hitting something deep enough to make my thighs tremble.

My legs instinctively fall open farther, and he catches the back of my knee with one hand, lifting it higher along his hip so he can push deeper. The angle changes and the sensation spikes, heat curling up my spine like a spark catching dry wood.

“Oh—god—Cade—”

“That’s it,” he growls, thrust hitting right where I need it. “Take it.”

His body cages mine against the couch, chest pressed to mine, heat rolling off him in waves. Every movement rocks us together. His hips driving in, my body arching up to meet him, the steady slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the building like it’s marking time.

He keeps up a rhythm that feels devastating in its precision. Not rushed or careless. Every thrust slow enough to make me feel all of him, deep enough to break me apart piece by piece.

“Look at me,” he says, voice rough.

I try. God, I try. But my head drops back when he hits that spot again, pleasure tearing through me too fast.

He grips my jaw gently but firmly, guiding my eyes back to his. “Don’t hide from me now. You feel incredible.”

Heat pools low in my stomach, tightening with every stroke. He knows it too, he can feel it. His thumb drags over my clit in tight, deliberate circles that match the snap of his hips, pulling soft, desperate sounds from my throat.

I give as much as I get, my hands in his hair, nails digging into his shoulders. My lips brushing his ear as I whisper every filthy thought that pushes to the surface. Each one earns a deeper thrust, a sharper exhale, a low curse that vibrates against my neck.

“You like this?” he rasps, voice shaking. “You like me taking control?”

I can’t answer. I can only cling harder, hips lifting, legs tightening around him as everything inside me spirals too fast to control.

“Kelsey,” he warns, voice breaking, “you’re right there. Stay with me. Come on, stay with me.”

His thumb presses just right. His hips grind once, twice—

—and I shatter.

My orgasm rips through me, raw and consuming, my whole body clenching around him as I cry out against his shoulder. He holds me through it, one arm locked around my back, the other steady under my thigh, moving just enough to drag the orgasm out until I’m shaking.

“Fuck—” he groans, losing the last thread of control as my body pulses around him. He thrusts once, hard, then buries himself deep, his body going taut above mine as he comes with his face pressed against my neck, breath stuttering against my skin.

Even then, he doesn’t let me go.

His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing my cheek bone like I’m fragile. His body stays molded to mine, chest heaving, heart pounding against my ribs like he’s trying to anchor me to him.

It doesn’t feel like destruction.

It feels like ignition. Like something starting.

We lie there for a long beat afterward, the only sounds are our uneven breathing and the faint tick of cooling metal somewhere. His weight is mostly braced away from me, but I can feel the heavy rise and fall of his chest. The damp of his forehead where it rests against mine.

I’m aware of my body in a new way. Loose. Warm. Satisfied. And underneath all that, something that feels suspiciously like peace.

And it’s terrifying.

“Hey,” I murmur, because silence feels too big. “You alive?”

His lips curve against my cheek. “Barely.”

“Good.” I nudge his shoulder. “Would hate to have to explain to the town why I broke their favorite carpenter.”

He lifts his head, eyes meeting mine. There’s a softness there I don’t know what to do with. “Pretty sure I’m no one’s favorite.”

“You’re mine,” slips out before I can stop it.

His brows lift.

“I mean,” I backpedal, heat crawling up my neck, “favorite carpenter. Obviously. I don’t have a list of carpenters in my phone or anything, but if I did, you’d be at the top.”

He chuckles, low and warm, and something in my chest eases. “You’re trouble,” he says.

“So I’ve been told.”

He brushes a thumb over my cheekbone, gaze going serious again. “I meant what I said, Kels. You don’t have to put on a show with me.”

The words make my throat tight. “What if the show is the only way I know how to be?”

“Then we start there,” he says. “And see what else shows up.”

Simple. Steady. Like everything with him.

I stare up at the shadowed ceiling, suddenly aware that this could be the part where he asks what we are. Where he pushes for labels or promises or a future I am not ready to name.

He doesn’t.

“You hungry?” he asks instead.

I blink. “That’s your follow-up?”

“You burn this hot, you need to refuel,” he says, deadpan.

A surprised laugh bursts out of me. “You’re such an old man.”

“And yet,” he says, mouth quirking, “here you are.”

He eventually rolls off the couch, muscles flexing as he bends to grab his jeans. I push up on my elbows, still trying to get my lungs back, still feeling the aftershocks in places I don’t want to think about or I’ll melt all over again.

He scoops my dress off the floor and hands it to me. “Here.”

I slip it over my head, tugging it down, trying to pretend I don’t feel as naked as I still am underneath it. I smooth my hands over the fabric as I stand up, trying to look less thoroughly fucked on the outside than I feel on the inside.

I look around. “Okay, but… where did my panties go?”

Cade glances over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting like he’s been waiting for me to ask.

He taps his jeans pocket. “Right here.”

I blink. “You’re kidding.”

“No.” He steps closer, voice low. “And you’re not getting them back.”

My breath stutters. “Why not?”

He leans in, mouth brushing my ear. “Because I like knowing you’re bare under that dress. And because if I decide I want you again…”

His fingers slide down the back of my thigh, slow enough to light me up all over again.

“…there won’t be a damn thing in my way.” 

He then moves around the workshop, flipping on a small lamp, grabbing two water bottles from a mini fridge in the corner.

He hands one to me. Our fingers brush. The tiny contact still sparks.

“This doesn’t have to be anything more than you want it to be,” he says, leaning against the workbench, bottle dangling from his fingers. “But I’m not going to pretend this is casual for me.”

The honesty hits me harder than any dirty line from earlier.

I roll the bottle between my palms.

“I’m not great at letting people see the real stuff,” I say. “Last night wasn’t… my best.”

“Okay,” he says immediately. No sulk. No flinch. “Then we take it one day at a time. Coffee. Dinners. Stealing you out of bonfires before you take too many dares.”

“You saying you want to see me again?” I tease, because it is easier than saying the truth, which is that part of me wants that so badly it scares me.

He looks at me like I have said something ridiculous. “Yeah, Kelsey. I want to see you again.”

Hope curls low and slow, mixing with the leftover heat.

I lift my bottle in a mock toast. “One day at a time, then.”

He taps his against mine. “One day at a time.”

It isn’t a promise wrapped up with a bow. It isn’t some grand declaration.

But as I sit there on his couch, skin still humming, heart still unsteady, watched by a man who has seen me at my wildest and my weakest and hasn’t run, it feels like a beginning.

And for now, that is enough.

The End

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: November 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Kelsey spends the entire day replaying that kiss — the one Cade called a mistake — and it’s enough to drive her straight back to him. What starts as a confrontation in the fading sunlight turns into a collision neither of them can walk away from.He’s steady. Controlled. Older.She’s restless and done pretending she didn’t feel every second of that kiss.When she pushes, Cade finally pushes back… and the spark they’ve been circling all week finally catches fire.But beneath the heat is something neither of them planned for — a shift, a crack, a moment where he sees the girl she hides from everyone else.And for the first time, Kelsey isn’t sure if she’s starting something she can control… or something that might burn deeper than she’s ready for.

Chapter 3

Kelsey

The Fire

I last about eight hours.

Eight hours of replaying that workshop kiss in my head. Eight hours of feeling his mouth on mine when it isn’t, his hands on my body when they’re nowhere near me. Eight hours of doing everything except what I really want, which is to march back there and demand he finish what he started.

I scrub tables at the café where I pick up shifts, pretend the streaks left behind by the cloth matter more than the way my chest tightens whenever someone walks in who is not him. I flirt with a tourist who tips too much and winks too often. I laugh at a bad joke. I hand out the wild-girl performance like free samples.

None of it lands.

Because the only moment that feels real is me backed against that workbench with Cade Lawson’s mouth on mine and his hand under my shirt like he had every right to be there.

And then him pulling away. Calling it a mistake.

My jaw aches from clenching it and my palms itch. My body is restless in a way caffeine and sunshine can’t touch. By the time my shift ends, I’m strung so tight I feel like a live wire in a room full of kindling. Ugh!

I should go home. Take a shower. Put on pajamas and pretend I know how to be still.

Instead, I turn toward the lumber yard.

The sun’s lower now, painting everything in that golden light that makes even the ugly parts of town look romantic. The front gate is still open, trucks lined up, stacks of boards throwing long shadows across the packed dirt. The buzz and clatter from earlier is gone, replaced by quiet. Closing time.

Perfect.

I find him in the back lot, near the workshop, rolling down one of the bay doors. He’s wearing a dark T-shirt streaked with dust, jeans hanging low on his hips, and  scuffed boots. His hair is a little mussed, like he’s dragged his hand through it a few too many times.

He looks tired. He looks good. He looks like trouble.

“You got a minute?” I call over.

He glances over, hand still on the door chain. His eyes move from my face to the sundress I changed into before leaving the café, then back up again. No wolf-whistle, no lingering stare, just one contained sweep that somehow still lights up my skin.

“Thought you’d be out at the bars by now,” he says.

“I’m full of surprises.”

He lets go of the chain. The door clanks to a stop halfway down. “What do you need, Kelsey?”

The way he says my name should be illegal. Low. Clean. Like he is trying extremely hard not to give it too much weight.

“You,” I say, because subtlety has never been my strong suit and I am too tired to pretend otherwise. “I need to talk. And maybe…” My gaze drags to his mouth. “Other things.”

His jaw tightens, that little tell I’m starting to collect. “Talking,” he repeats. “Right.”

I stalk closer, sandals crunching over gravel. My heart is hammering, but my chin is up. “You kissed me like you wanted it…me, then acted like I tripped and fell onto your face. I’m not letting you pretend it was nothing.”

His eyes hold mine, steady. “I didn’t say it was nothing.”

“You called it a mistake.”

“I said I shouldn’t have done it.”

“Same thing.”

“It isn’t.” I huff.

The words hang between us. Heavy and true. He looks away first, toward the bay, like the half-swept sawdust and neat rows of tools might have better answers.

I step into his line of sight, refusing to be ignored. “You want me or not, Lawson?”

His fingers flex by his sides. Good. Got him.

“That’s not the question,” he says.

“It is the question.”

“The question is whether I should.”

“There you go again,” I snap. “Acting like you’re one foot in the retirement home. You’re thirty-eight, not ninety. I’m twenty-seven, far from being a child.”

His mouth twitches. “Pretty sure you told me to stop acting ancient.”

“Because you are. In your head.” I shove a hand against his chest, not hard enough to move him, just hard enough to feel the solid muscle under my palm. The contact sends a jolt through me. It annoys me that he must feel it too. “You can’t just light me up like that and then hide behind your birth certificate.”

Something shifts in his eyes. A flicker of heat pushing through the calm.

I press in. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing? You think I haven’t had my share of bad decisions already? Newsflash, Lawson. I have. You don’t qualify.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s counting to ten.

I don’t give him time to reach it.

I rock up on my toes and kiss him.

It’s not neat. It’s not cautious. It’s everything I’ve been holding back all day, poured into the press of my mouth against his. For one wild second, I wonder if he’ll push me away.

He doesn’t.

His hand snaps to my hip, fingers tightening, and he hauls me closer like he’s been waiting for an excuse. The other curls around the back of my neck, angling my head just where he wants it. His mouth slants over mine, heat and control and frustration all tangled together.

There he is.

I sigh into him, the sound swallowed by the way he deepens the kiss. My hands slide up his chest, over the faint roughness of sawdust clinging to the cotton, then around his neck. I feel his pulse jump under my palm.

He tries to keep it measured. I can feel the effort in the way he holds his body, in the control of his grip. It only lasts a few beats.

Then he loses his patience.

His lips part, and the kiss turns hot, hungry. He takes my bottom lip between his, teeth scraping lightly, and a sound I barely recognize rips out of me. My back meets the frame of the bay door, cool metal shocking against heated skin where the strap of my dress has slipped.

“Cade,” I breathe, half plea, half curse.

His mouth skims down my jaw to the curve of my throat. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he says against my skin, voice rough.

“I think I do.”

He huffs out a laugh that feels like it’s been dragged from somewhere deep. “You’re playing with fire.”

“You already told me I’d get burned,” I remind him, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Then let me.”

He lifts his head, eyes locking onto mine. For a moment, the world narrows to that look. The workshop, the yard, the town, all of it falls away.

“You want this,” he says. Not a question.

“Yes.”

“You’re sure.”

“God, yes.”

Something in him settles. Not the calm he wears like armor but something heavier. It looks like acceptance.

“Then we’re not doing this half in a doorway,” he says.

Before I can answer, he reaches up, grabs the chain, and drags the bay door the rest of the way down. It rumbles shut behind me, sealing us into the dim, warm space that still smells like cut wood and the day’s work.

My heartbeat is in my ears now.

He turns back, closer in the half-light, all broad lines and steady intent. “Last chance to change your mind, Kels.”

I lift my chin. “Not changing it.”

One corner of his mouth curves. “Good.”

He backs me toward the workbench again, slower this time, our mouths brushing in between steps, each kiss a little more deliberate than the last. His hands trace the line of my sides, memorizing. When I bump into the edge of the bench, he pauses.

“Up,” he says.

Heat shoots through me at the command in his tone.

I push up onto the bench, the wood solid under my thighs. He steps between my knees, palms gliding over my legs, skimming the hem of my dress. His touch is firm. Confident. Not fumbling or unsure. A man who has definitely done this before and intends to do it again.

I swallow, suddenly aware of every place our bodies touch. “You always this bossy?”

“You haven’t seen me bossy yet,” he murmurs.

My breath catches.

His fingers find the straps of my dress, sliding them off my shoulders one by one. He doesn’t yank. He doesn’t rush. He just bares me inch by inch, eyes never leaving my face, watching every tiny reaction.

The power of that almost knocks me flat and I close my eyes.

“Open. Eyes on me,” he says quietly, thumbs brushing my skin. “If you want me to stop, you say it.”

“I won’t.”

“Then let me take care of you.”

The way he says it makes my stomach flip.

His hands move with steady intention, mapping me like he’s learning a terrain he plans to travel again. Every pass of his fingers leaves behind little trails of heat. Every drag of his mouth over mine, over my throat, over the newly exposed skin, pulls another sound from my chest.

He murmurs things against my skin between kisses. Low, sinful things that make my cheeks burn and my pulse trip.

“Been thinking about this all damn day.”

“Look at you. All that wild for everyone else, and this for me.”

“Tell me what you like. I want every bit of it.”

I try to cover my reaction with jokes. It’s what I do.

“Careful, Lawson,” I pant. “Talk like that and I’ll think you actually like me.”

His gaze cuts up, pinning me. “I do like you. That’s the problem.”

The words land in my chest like a flare.

My fingers curl in the back of his shirt. I drag him closer, refusing to think about what happens if I let myself believe him. “Then show me.”

He does.

He takes his time, which is somehow worse than if he’d rushed. His hands are practiced, reading my body like he’s following a manual no one else bothered to open. He listens to every shift in my breath, every arch, every choked-off sound, and adjusts until I am nothing but sensation.

There is no crowd here. No audience. No one to see me but him.

And he sees everything.

His hand slides under my skirt like he’s been waiting for this exact second, fingers dragging against the inside of my thigh before they find the edge of my panties. He slides them aside with a slow, deliberate motion that steals the breath from my lungs.

I gasp when his fingertips touch bare skin and slick heat, before he presses in with a pressure that makes my knees shake for half a second.

“You feel that?” he asks, voice low and rough, his mouth brushing my cheek as two thick fingers pump inside me in a steady motion.

My body tries to twist away from the intensity out of instinct, but he catches my hip and pulls me right back against him, holding me exactly where he wants me.

“Yes.” The word breaks out of me, strangled, helpless, nothing like the bravado I walked in with.

His thumb finds my clit, slow and sure. “Good girl.”

My entire body lights up at that. Embarrassing. Unfair. I tighten my legs around him like that will somehow hide my reaction.

“Thought you liked being the wild one,” he says, lips brushing my ear. “What happened to the girl who could drink everyone under the table and laugh it off?”

“She’s busy,” I manage. “Check back later.”

His chuckle rumbles through me. “No. She’s right here. She just doesn’t have to work so hard with me.”

The tenderness under the heat scrapes something open. My chest feels tight. Unfamiliar.

“Don’t… analyze me while you’re doing that,” I mutter, shivering when his mouth finds a particularly sensitive spot along my neck.

“I’m not analyzing,” he says. “I’m paying attention.”

“Same thing.”

His hands slow, one palm settling warm and broad over my ribs. He leans back just enough to see my face. I want to look away. I can’t.

“You don’t have to play wild for me, Kelsey,” he says quietly. “I already see you.”

The words slice right through the last of my defenses. No one talks to me like that. Guys tell me I’m fun, hot, crazy in bed, all surface. No one says they see me like it’s a good thing.

“Careful,” I joke weakly. “You keep talking like that, I might think you’re a good man.”

He huffs softly. “Too late.”

I search his face, trying to find the trap. “You really think you see me?”

“I know I do.”

“What if you don’t like what’s under all this?” I ask, gesturing vaguely to my own body, my dress, the invisible costume I wear around everyone else.

His gaze doesn’t waver. “I liked you when you were laughing too loud at the fire. I liked you when you were shaking and trying to pretend you weren’t. I like you now.” A beat. “There isn’t a version I’m not interested in.”

The air feels too thin.

Vulnerability claws at my throat, and my instinct is to smother it with flirtation. To turn this back into a joke. Into heat without weight.

“Big talk for a guy who called this a mistake,” I say.

His jaw tightens. “The mistake is me thinking I could stay away from you,” he admits. “Not this.”

The floor inside me gives way a little.

Before I can say something stupid, he cuts off my reply with another kiss. This one is slower. Deeper. Less about control and more about connection.

My hands slide under his shirt, fingers skating over warm skin and hard muscle. He shivers, just once, and the victory that surges through me is almost enough to drown out the nerves.

Almost.

Come back tomorrow for chapter Four

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: November 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Some tropes just hit every time… and age gap romance is one of them, for me anyway.

Maybe it’s the tension.

Maybe it’s the life experience difference.

Maybe it’s the barely-there line between I shouldn’t and I really, really want to.

Whatever it is, age gap stories give us that perfect mix of slow-burn restraint and explosive chemistry. The push-pull. The careful boundaries. The moment the older one slips. The moment the younger one stops pretending she doesn’t want him to.

There’s something addictive about the dynamic:

• When he’s steady, grounded, and thinks he knows better…

• And she’s fire, chaos, and absolutely determined to prove he doesn’t.

Age gap romance isn’t about imbalance — it’s about contrast. Different stages of life colliding in the most delicious way. A little forbidden, a lot intense, and always full of heat.

If you’re someone who loves…

• the protective, quietly-watching older hero

• the bold sunshine girl who makes him lose his grip

• the “you’re trouble” / “you like it” kind of banter

• chemistry they both swear they can control (they can’t)

…then you already know why this trope never gets old.

And if you are reading one right now?

Tell me everything. Your favorite age gap book, your favorite line, your favorite messy moment. Drop it in the comments — I want recs.