Chapter 5 Mia's Pov

I woke with Ethan’s breath still on my skin.

That made no sense because he hadn’t touched me. At least not really. But my body did not care about logic.

I lay there staring at the ceiling, heart racing, replaying the moment by the fire over and over again. The brush of his hand against mine. The way his fingers had stiffened like he’d been burned. The fear that had flashed across his face before he pulled away.

Fear, not disgust.

That mattered more than it should have.

I rolled onto my side and buried my face in the pillow. It smelled faintly of detergent and pine. 

You came here to heal, I reminded myself as if I needed to hear it now. You came here to breathe.

You did not come here to fall for a man who flinched every time you and his daughter play together or when he mistakenly touched you. No, Mia, you didn't. 

I sighed deeply. Then I stood up and dressed quietly before I stepped out into the hallway.

The cabin was still. The storm had softened overnight but the snow remained piled high against the windows like proof that escape was still not an option. The fire had burned low, embers glowing faintly.

I moved into the kitchen and started coffee, more for something to do with my hands than anything else.

“Morning.”

I jumped.

Ethan stood in the doorway, already dressed, hair damp like he’d washed it recently. His eyes looked tired and guarded again.

“Morning,” I said even as I sighed again. 

We did not mention last night.

He poured himself coffee and relaxed against the counter, his arms crossed as he did so. The space between us felt charged in a way it hadn’t before. Not comfortable but not hostile either. 

Lily burst into the room moments later, all energy and curls and questions.

“Mia,” she said, rushing over and wrapping her arms around my waist without warning.

I froze at first. Then I slowly hugged her back.

Ethan stiffened as he watched us. 

I felt it even without looking at him.

“Good morning,” Lily said into my sweater.

“Good morning,” I said with my voice thick with emotions.

She pulled back and grinned. “Daddy said the snow is still winning.”

“That’s one way to put it,” I said.

Ethan cleared his throat. “I checked again. Still blocked. The plows won’t reach this area until the main roads clear.”

“So,” I said carefully, “still stuck.”

“Yes.”

Lily clapped her hands. “Snow vacation.”

Ethan laughed in response. “Snow responsibility.”

I smiled despite myself.

The day unfolded slower than the others.

Ethan grew quieter as the hours passed. Not withdrawn exactly but distant. It was like he was rebuilding walls he’d let slip. He focused on tasks. Fixed a loose hinge. Reorganized the pantry. Shoveled snow away from the doors even though it would only pile up again.

I stayed busy too. Folded laundry. Helped Lily with a puzzle. Pretended I wasn’t watching Ethan out of the corner of my eye.

Lily followed me everywhere again but now there was something else in it. Familiarity. Expectation.

She handed me things without asking. Asked me questions she didn’t ask her father. Crawled into my lap when she got bored.

The weight of that trust pressed on me as always.

“Mia,” she said at one point, while we colored at the table. “Are you going to leave?”

The question landed too cleanly.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly.

She frowned. “Daddy says everyone leaves.”

My chest tightened in response.

“Not everyone,” I said.

She considered that and then nodded like she’d store it away for later.

I glanced up.

Ethan stood by the window, staring out at the snow like it had personally wronged him. His jaw was tight and his shoulders tense.

I wondered if he’d heard.

The afternoon light faded early, swallowed by clouds. The cabin grew dim again, lanterns and fire taking over.

Ethan suggested a movie after dinner. The suggestion felt careful like he was testing a boundary.

Lily squealed and chose one animated movie after another until Ethan cut her off and insisted on something “short.”

We settled on the couch soon after. Lily wedged herself between us without hesitation. She tucked her legs under her and relaxed her body back on it, her head resting against my shoulder while Rudy claimed her lap.

Ethan sat stiffly on the other side, close enough that I could feel the heat from his arm, far enough that he wasn’t touching me.

The movie started.

It was simple. Predictable. It caused bright colors and cheerful voices to fill the cabin.

Lily laughed in a loud and unrestrained manner. 

I smiled at her reactions more than the screen.

Ethan stayed focused on the movie but I caught him glancing at us occasionally. At Lily. At me. At the way she leaned into me like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The domesticity of it all felt dangerous.

Halfway through, Lily’s laughter faded into soft breaths and her body grew heavier against me.

“She’s out,” I whispered to Ethan who then looked down at her, something gentle breaking through his guarded expression.

“Yeah,” he said softly.

I shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable without waking her. The movement was small but it tipped the balance. Lily slid sideways, her head landing against Ethan’s chest.

He froze. So did I.

“She’s okay,” I whispered as if reassuring both of us.

Slowly, carefully, Ethan wrapped an arm around her and turned to look at the screen.

The gesture felt intimate in a way that had nothing to do with romance. It was raw. Protective. Earned.

My chest ached in response.

I went back to watching the movie that was still playing. At some point, exhaustion caught up with me.

I didn’t mean to fall asleep.

I meant to stay awake but the warmth of the fire, the steady rise and fall of Lily’s breathing, the weight of silence broken only by the voices of the characters on screen lulled me to sleep. 

My eyes closed.

When I woke, it took a moment to remember where I was.

The movie credits was rolling on the screen. Otherwise, the cabin was quiet. I could see that the fire had burned low again and that I was leaning against Ethan whose eyes were slightly open. 

I couldn't help noticing that my cheek rested against his shoulder and his arm was still around Lily.

My heart slammed into my ribs just then. 

Careful, I told myself. Don’t move too fast. Careful, Mia. 

I shifted slightly, trying to slide away without waking anyone.

That was when Ethan’s hand closed around my wrist in a manner that was not tight but not gentle either. 

It was just enough to stop me.

My breath caught in response. 

I looked up slowly, noting how his eyes were dark in the firelight, unreadable and intense. His grip stayed steady like he didn’t trust himself to loosen it yet.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” I whispered.

“I know,” he said and the words hung between us.

Lily stirred slightly, then settled again, oblivious.

Ethan did not release me.

Neither did I pull away.

The space between us felt suspended, fragile as glass.

“You should go to bed,” he said quietly.

His thumb brushed my wrist. Just once.

The touch sent heat racing up my arm.

“I will,” I said with my heart thudding erratically inside my chest. 

But neither of us moved.

His gaze dropped to my mouth.

Then back to my eyes.

Something fierce and frightened lived there at the same time.

“Mia,” he said with a husky voice that sent shivers up my spine.

“Yes.”

“This,” he said, and his grip tightened just slightly, “is a bad idea.”

My pulse thundered.

“I know,” I whispered with a voice so rough I could barely recognise it. 

He didn’t let go.

The fire popped softly, sending sparks upward.

Outside, the wind rose again, rattling the windows like a reminder that the world had not softened just because we had.

Slowly, reluctantly, Ethan loosened his hold.

My wrist slipped free.

I stood carefully, lifting Lily’s weight just enough to pass her fully back to him.

He took her, his arms closing around her instinctively.

Our fingers brushed in the transfer.

The contact lingered a second too long.

I stepped back as if I had been burned. 

“Goodnight,” I said.

“Goodnight,” he replied.

I walked down the hallway with my heart pounding so hard I felt it in my ears.

In the guest room, I closed the door quietly and relaxed against it, pressing my palm to my chest.

Wanting him felt reckless.

Wanting his daughter’s trust felt terrifying.

Wanting this life, even for a moment, felt like standing on thin ice and knowing how deep the water was beneath it.

I slid into bed and stared into the dark.

And I knew, with absolute certainty, that whatever line existed between Ethan and me had already been crossed.

We just hadn’t admitted it yet.