Chapter Four.1

GHOST

Ember stared into his pantry as if it had personally wronged her, the neat rows of supplies standing in silent judgment of the turmoil she refused to name. She wasn’t rummaging or grabbing anything, just standing there with her shoulders tight and her jaw clenched, breathing a little too fast for someone who claimed she was coping just fine with the storm and everything else the night had dumped on her. Ghost stayed where he was, rooted by the far counter with deliberate distance, not because he didn’t want to be closer, but because the desire to close that gap was already burning too hot, too insistent for comfort. He already knew what she was going to take before her hand even lifted. The same snack she always bought. The one she complained about while eating the entire bag anyway. The one he kept stocked for no reason he could ever admit out loud. She hovered over it, fingers twitching with indecision that had nothing to do with hunger. “…Couch is fine,” she muttered under her breath. “Bed is stupid. Too soft. Too close. No. Couch.”

His mouth twitched despite himself, a small betrayal of the amusement he kept carefully leashed. “You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” he said quietly, his voice low to avoid startling her.

She stiffened instantly, shoulders drawing up like armor snapping into place. “I want to.”

“You hate couches.”

“I hate being predictable more.”

He stepped a little closer, not crowding her, just close enough that he didn’t have to raise his voice above the storm’s roar. “The bed’s more comfortable for you.”

“That’s the problem,” she shot back, the words sharp but edged with something vulnerable she would never voice aloud. She finally grabbed the snack like it was an act of rebellion and turned toward him. The candlelight caught her face, and Ghost felt the shift immediately, a punch to the gut that he masked with practiced calm. The flush in her cheeks was too deep to be simple irritation. A faint sheen of sweat clung to her temples and the hollow of her throat, glistening in the flickering glow. Her breathing had gone shallow, her pupils blown wide in the low light, making her eyes seem even brighter, more feral. His wolf stirred uneasily within him, pacing with a restlessness that mirrored the storm outside.

Too early for this.

That wasn’t how it usually started, not for someone as stubborn as her. “Ember,” he said carefully, keeping his tone even, “you’re running warm already.”

“I’m fine,” she snapped, the denial automatic and fierce. She shrugged out of her jacket and tossed it toward the couch with more force than necessary. The motion stirred the air, and her scent hit him fully this time, richer, warmer, unmistakably shifting into something that tugged at every instinct he possessed. Ghost forced himself not to inhale deeper, locking his jaw against the urge. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, the gesture impatient. “It’s hot in here, that’s all.”

“It isn’t,” he said, softening the words before they sounded like a challenge. “But you are.”

Her glare could have cracked stone, bright and unyielding. “I said I’m coping.”

She wasn’t, though, and they both knew it.

Her hands trembled when she set the snack on the counter. She leaned against the edge like it was the only thing keeping her upright, her body doing exactly what it was built to do, and she was fighting it with every ounce of stubborn force she had. Ghost felt the familiar, dangerous pull to fix it all, to touch her, to soothe her, to take the weight of it off her shoulders and carry it himself for as long as she needed.

Instead, he stayed still, a pillar of restraint in the dim kitchen. “You should lie down,” he said gently, offering the suggestion without pressure.

“No.”

“At least sit for a minute.”

“I am sitting in spirit,” she retorted, the sarcasm a thin shield.

He exhaled through his nose, the sound soft in the charged space. “A cold shower might help take the edge off.”

She froze.

Not with anger this time.

With consideration, the idea clearly tempting her despite herself. He saw the moment the relief flickered across her expression, a brief flash before she buried it under layers of irritation and pride.

“No,” she said too quickly. “No showers.”

“You’re overheating, Ember.”

“I’m managing.”

“You’re sweating through your shirt.”

“I said I’m managing.”

Ghost held her gaze, steady and patient, his blue-gray eyes unwavering. After a moment he nodded once, accepting her boundary for now. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Then we’ll manage together.” That made her blink, surprise cutting through the haze for a second. He didn’t step closer. Didn’t reach for her. Didn’t try to calm her with a touch that would only ignite things further.

He simply stayed.

Anchored.

Present.

The woman he’d wanted since the day she moved in next door stood in his kitchen with heat rising under her skin, her defenses cracking open in ways she didn’t even realize yet. Ghost did the hardest thing he knew how to do.

He gave her space, even as it cost him.