Page 32 of Love At First Roar
She laughed lightly. “In a good way, I hope.”
An almost-smile tugged his lips. “Still deciding.”
They sipped coffee, letting the lake’s chill melt away. Outside, wind rustled pine branches, but inside the cabin felt cocooned, safe.
16
CALLUM
Callum poked the hearth until the new birch log caught, blue flames licking across its bark. The cabin smelled of damp wool, coffee, and faint lilac, a mix he pretended not to notice. Cora sat on the sofa, blanket draped over her knees, steam curling from a refilled mug. Her cheeks glowed from heat and perhaps something brighter.
She had fallen quiet, studying the leather notebook on the side table. Every so often she glanced up as if considering a crime. The first two times he ignored it. The third time he sighed.
“You will keep staring until it bursts.” He folded onto the armchair, coffee balanced on one broad palm. “Go on. Ask.”
Her mouth curved. “I was not staring.”
“Liar.”
“All right, maybe a little.” She tucked damp curls behind one ear. “You said you never share your poems. Never is a heavy word.”
He took a long sip, using the mug to hide his grimace. “I meant it.”
Her smile turned coaxing. “One line? Just so I can hear how a lion spins words.”
The room felt smaller, firelight pressing close. He thought of Tessa, of the way she used to steal pages from his journal and tease the metaphors out loud. The ache that followed surprised him less than the gentleness of it. The wound no longer screamed; it throbbed like an old scar, ache softened by time and, perhaps, the scent of lilacs by his hearth.
Cora waited, green eyes bright but patient. He could say no and she would not push. That certainty pricked something tender. A single line, then. A safe one.
Callum set his mug down, ran a thumb along the edge of the notebook, and opened to a middle page. Inked across the top, jagged and dark, sat a line he had written during a sleepless thunderstorm:
I guard the wild places, yet the wild has already claimed me.
He cleared his throat. “That is all.”
Cora leaned forward, reading, then leaned back as if the words carried heat. “It feels… alive,” she murmured. “Like claws wrapped in moonlight.” Her gaze flicked to him, soft and astonished. “Thank you for trusting me.”
The praise settled heavy and warm in his chest, unexpected as summer rain. He swallowed. “Do not make a fuss.”
“No fuss,” she promised, voice hushed. “Only honesty. It’s beautiful, Callum.”
His pulse stumbled. Beautiful. A word he rarely attached to himself. The fire popped, sending sparks toward the flue. He looked away, pretending to watch them dance.
Dangerous, this feeling of being seen. Yet he found he wanted more.
“I won’t tell a soul.”
“I know.” He slid the leather beneath a stack of field maps. Trust had slipped in while he wasn’t looking.
Outside, rain started, pattering on the cedar shakes. She glanced at the foggy windows. “Trail will be slick.”
“I’ll still walk you.” He rose, gathering their mugs. “Can’t have you injuring yourself and setting off a spell while I’m supposed to be guarding you.”
Her laugh was soft. “Oh, how kind of you.”
They donned their still-damp outer shirts and stepped onto the porch. Night clung to the forest, cool and sweet with petrichor. Clouds drifted past a sliver moon. Callum led the way, boots sure on the muddy path. The rain slowed to a whisper, leaves shaking off droplets as they passed.
Cora hummed quietly, the same lullaby he had almost memorized. He found himself matching his pace to the rhythm. The forest around them seemed to listen; even the frogs along Hollow Creek paused their croak to let the tune float.
