Page 34 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

The question hangs between us, unavoidable now. His breathing changes slightly, the only indication that the query affects him.

"You leave and write your article." His voice reveals nothing.

"And you?"

"I stay. Guide. Rescue foolish writers who ignore storm warnings."

The attempt at lightness falls flat, inadequate against the weight of what's developed between us. My fingers curl against his chest, seeking anchorage against the approaching separation.

"That's it?" The words emerge more vulnerable than intended.

"We agreed." Jackson's hand finds mine, fingers intertwining. "What else can there be?"

No answer presents itself—not one that doesn't sound naive or desperate. We exist in different worlds, our lives running on tracks that were never meant to converge beyond this temporary intersection.

“Nothing, I guess.” The words taste like ash. I don’t meet his eyes. Can’t. Because if I do, I’ll crumble.

"We knew this going in." His arms tighten. Just a fraction. Just enough to betray him.

Silence stretches between us, taut as a wire, humming with everything we’re trying not to say. We’re pretending the world won’t crack open in the morning. That goodbye won’t taste like blood.

But I can’t leave it like this.

I shift. Slowly. Carefully. Letting the sheet fall away as I rise above him, straddle his hips, thighs framing the solid warmth of his body.

His breath catches, eyes locking with mine. No words. No resistance. Just the quiet throb of disbelief as I reach down and guide him inside me.

There’s no rush.

I sink onto him with aching precision, the stretch familiar now. Welcome. My palms settle on his chest. His hands grasp my hips, but there’s no force behind the grip—just reverence. His eyes never leave mine.

I start to move. Slow. Purposeful. Rolling my hips in languid circles, chasing something deeper than climax. Etching the memory of him into my body, one stroke at a time.

Jackson’s throat works around a groan, eyes dark with something unspoken. He holds me as if I might vanish. Like I’m already a ghost he’s trying to memorize.

My fingers trace the curve of his jaw, the scar just beneath his bottom lip. I lean down, kiss the hollow of his throat. Taste the salt of our sweat. Hear the stutter in his breath when I clench around him.

“I don’t want to let this go,” I whisper against his skin.

He slides one hand up my spine, holds me there, forehead against mine, breath mingling as I move—gentle now, deep and steady, like a promise neither of us dares to make out loud.

"Neither do I."

The storm still rages outside. But in here, it’s all hush and heat. The quiet rhythm of two people clinging to a lie they both want to rewrite.

And when I fall, I do it with my eyes open. Watching his face. Feeling every inch of him as he follows me over the edge, gasping my name like it means more than either of us will admit.

After, I stay on top of him. His arms curl around me, drawing me down until our hearts beat against each other’s chests. Slower now. But not steadier.

Just before sleep pulls me under, his lips find my ear.

“I wish things were different.”

This time, I believe him, but I also know that it doesn’t change a damn thing.

The confession lingers in the darkness, offering no solutions but acknowledging what neither can deny—that something significant has ignited between us, something neither expected nor sought, yet neither can dismiss as mere physical release.

Tomorrow, we descend the mountain, leaving behind not just this shelter but also the secluded world we created—a world where two damaged people found unexpected healing in each other's arms, where past traumas momentarily receded, where connection transcended boundaries of sensibility and circumstance.

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