Page 13 of Found By the Mountain Man
The storm is breaking.
The coffee finishes brewing, and I pour myself a cup, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic. The heat feels good against my cold palms, grounding me in something other than the chaos in my head.
"Morning."
Her voice, soft and sleep-roughened, makes me stiffen. I don't turn around immediately, needing a moment to compose myself before facing her.
"Morning," I reply, keeping my voice carefully neutral. "Coffee's ready if you want some."
"Thanks."
I hear her moving around behind me—the rustle of blankets, her bare feet on the wooden floor. When I finally turn, she's standing by the couch wearing my t-shirt and not much else, her hair mussed and her eyes still heavy with sleep. She looks like a woman who's been thoroughly loved, and the sight of her hits me like a punch to the gut.
"How are you feeling?" I ask, falling back into the safe territory of medical assessment. "Any lingering effects from yesterday?"
"I'm fine. Sore in a few places, but fine."
The double meaning in her words isn't lost on me. She's sore from what we did together, and we both know it. Heat flashes through me at the reminder, followed immediately by another wave of self-recrimination.
"Good," I manage. "That's good."
She moves to the kitchen counter, accepting the cup of coffee I pour for her. "Connor," she starts, her voice gentle but determined. "About last night."
"Last night was a mistake," I cut her off, the words coming out harsher than intended. "You were vulnerable. I took advantage. It won't happen again."
The hurt that flashes across her features is like a knife to the chest, but I force myself to maintain my distance. This is for the best. For both of us.
"A mistake," she repeats quietly, setting down her coffee cup. "Is that really what you think?"
"It's what I know." I turn away from her, unable to keep looking at the pain in her eyes. The pain I put there. "You're dealing with trauma. What happened between us was a natural response to a life-threatening situation. Nothing more."
"Bullshit."
The quiet vehemence in her voice surprises me. I turn back to find her watching me with those dark eyes, her chin lifted in defiance.
"Excuse me?"
"I said bullshit." She crosses her arms, the movement pulling my t-shirt tight across her breasts. I force myself to look at her face. "Don't you dare minimize what happened between us by calling it some kind of trauma response."
"Mavis."
"No." She steps closer, and I have to fight the urge to back away. "You don't get to make love to me like that, like I'm themost precious thing you've ever touched, and then dismiss it as a mistake in the morning."
I suck in a breath. She’s right. It wasn't just sex, not just physical release, but something deeper. Something that scared the hell out of me.
"It doesn't matter," I say finally. "When this storm passes, you'll go back to your life. Your career. Your world. And I'll stay here."
"What if I don't want to go back?"
The quiet question stops me cold. She's looking at me with such honesty, such hope, that I have to look away.
"You will," I tell her. "Trust me. This place, this life—it's not for you."
"How do you know what's for me?" There's a challenge in her voice now, frustration bleeding through. "You've known me for two days."
"I know enough." I move to the window, staring out at the storm. The snow is definitely lighter now, more manageable. "I know you're passionate about your work. I know you have a mission, something important you're trying to accomplish. I know you're brave enough to risk your life for what you believe in."
"And?"
