Page 60 of Orphan Girl's Mountain Men

But instead… I feel settled.

Maybe it's denial, and I'm still riding the afterglow of the best release I've had in years. Hailey did that to me—made me lose it so hard I saw stars.

She's still draped across my chest, warm and soft. I haven't pulled out yet, and I'm in no rush. I don't want to lose the feeling of being inside her—of her pulsing around me, both of us still humming with aftershocks.

Hell, my bones are still vibrating. Parts of me feel like they're still coming. Her scent clings to me, and I'm already hardening again.

Her hair brushes my chest, and I feel the steady rhythm of my heartbeat beneath her cheek.

This is going to get complicated, I can feel it. We should talk—about what just happened, and what comes next.

But she's gone quiet, her silence heavy, as if she is a long way away, deep in her own thoughts. I want to speak to her, but I don't know what to say, or how to start.

"I'm sorry," she whispers so softly I almost miss it. Her finger traces slow circles on my chest, but I frown.

Why the hell is she apologizing?

"Why are you saying 'sorry'?" I ask, tilting her chin so I can look into her eyes—already glossy with tears. This stirs a different kind of guilt in me. "You've got nothing to be sorry for."

"I asked for this," she says. "You… you didn't want to, but I practically begged you."

I let out a short laugh.Is that how she sees it? Was she even there five minutes ago?

"You think if I didn't want this, I'd have fucked you so hard I couldn't see straight?" I ask. "The door was open. I could've walked out. You didn't force me to sit down, and you sure as hell didn't force me to want you."

I tuck her hair behind her ear, meeting her eyes. "I could've dressed your burn in the kitchen. Or the hallway. Or anywhere else. But I came into your bedroom. Maybe part of me wanted this to happen. If I'm honest with myself, I've wanted you for a long time."

Her eyes widen. "I didn't know you felt that way."

She blushes when I don't look away, and after a moment, a soft light flickers in her eyes. Then she gives me a tiny smile—and I can't help but return it.

"I have to be honest with you," I say, trying to find the words. "My wife… she was the love of my life. And I don't think I'll ever?—"

"It's okay," she cuts me off gently. Her smile is soft, and there's a sense of true understanding in her eyes. "I get it. You're not ready for anything serious right now. Honestly, neither am I. I'm still figuring a lot out."

"I know." I run my fingers through her hair—slow, steady. If anyone understands grief, it's me. Reed, Dean, and I… we've all lost people in the field. But losing your family? That's something else entirely. I keep combing my fingers through her hair. "Tell me what they were like."

"Who?"

"Your parents. And your aunt and uncle."

She glances at me, so I keep going. "When my wife died, the thing that drove me crazy was how no one would talk about her. Everyone acted like I'd shatter if I heard her name—like saying it out loud would break me. It was infuriating. And it didn't help."

I pause, then add quietly, "What helped was talking about her."

She looks at me for a few long seconds… then smiles.

"They were terrific cooks, both of them," she says, resting her head back on my chest. "Mom and Dad, I mean. My aunt was a great cook too, but she was more… efficient. You'd be hard pressed to find anything she couldn't do, and it would always come out well. But here’s the difference: Aunty May followed the recipes in her books, and she followed them religiously — to the absolute letter. Whereas Mom and Dad… well they made it up as they went along. I doubt we ever had the same meal twice.I doubt they’d even have knownhowto make the same meal again. I don’t think they even owned a recipe book. If they did they sure didn’t use it much."

"Were you happy, living with your aunt and uncle?"

She goes quiet for a second, then exhales slowly.

"Happy's a relative thing. I loved them, and I know they loved me—just… not in the ways I was used to.

"My parents were affectionate—physically and emotionally. Always hugging each other, kissing me, writing little notes and hiding them around the house. They did things to show they cared. And they loved adventures. We were always going somewhere, doing something new.

"So going from that to my aunt and uncle's place—quiet, structured, barely any talking, let alone affection—it was a huge shift. And I didn't exactly handle it well."

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