The rain hadn't stopped for hours. It drummed a quiet rhythm on the cabin roof, soft but insistent, like a heartbeat trying to soothe a too-full silence.
James leaned against the kitchen counter, fingers wrapped around a chipped mug. The fire across the room crackled and spat tiny sparks, casting shadows that danced on the wooden walls. Emmie sat cross-legged on the couch, arms wrapped around her knees, her hair still damp from their earlier dash through the storm.
Neither of them had spoken much since dinner. Not about anything that mattered, anyway. She'd caught him watching her a few times—eyes tracking her like he was trying to memorize something, like he knew it was temporary.
"You're quiet," he said at last, voice low and rough.
Emmie looked up. "So are you."
A ghost of a smile passed over his mouth. "I talk too much around you. I think I'm trying to figure out why."
"You don't have to," she murmured. "It doesn't have to mean anything."
"But what if it does?"
She blinked, startled by the question. James never asked what if. He acted. Moved. Controlled. She'd spent weeks learning the outlines of his restraint, how tightly wound his calm could be.
"I'm not looking for a reason to break something else," she said after a beat. "I don't want to wake up tomorrow and wish I hadn't—"
He crossed the room slowly, setting the mug down as he came. "You won't."
Her breath caught when he stopped in front of her. Close. Closer than he'd ever stood, and suddenly she was aware of every place his warmth reached without touching her. A beat passed.
"James…"
His voice dropped, almost a whisper. "Tell me to stop, and I will."
The silence stretched between them. The fire hissed, thunder groaned in the distance.
"I don't want to stop," she said finally, quiet but sure.
The shift in him was subtle, like an exhale of something he'd been holding too long. He knelt in front of her, hands ghosting over her knees, then her waist, waiting—always waiting—for her to pull away.
But she didn't.
Her fingers threaded into his hair, slow and tentative. His mouth found hers in the next breath—soft at first, then deeper, hungry. The kind of kiss that stripped away thought, left only feeling in its place. And in that moment, she didn't think about the past, or the what-ifs, or the ache in her chest that told her she shouldn't trust this.
She only thought of him. Of now. Of the way his touch calmed something wild in her.
He stood and took her hand gently. "Come with me."
She nodded, heart racing, and let him lead her toward the bedroom.
Whatever came after, they could carry tomorrow.
Tonight, she wanted to be his.
**************************************************
The coffee shop was tucked away behind a line of sleepy bookstores and ivy-laced walls, as though it, too, was hiding something. Emmie sat at a corner table, her fingers curled around a ceramic mug that had long gone cold, but she didn't seem to notice. Her eyes shimmered, the way they always did when she talked about James.
"He's not what people think," she said softly, smiling as she stirred her drink absentmindedly. "He's just... misunderstood."
Across from her sat a figure cloaked in silence. The person's posture was taut, as if their very presence was meant to unsettle. No greetings was offered, and Emmie hadn't asked—perhaps she didn't want to know how the person was fairing on. Perhaps she already did know. It was stressful as it is.
"Misunderstood?" The voice was low, clipped, and unimpressed. "He's known for being reckless with hearts. I'm not here to stir trouble or hurt your feelings, Emmie. But you need to understand what you're walking into."
"I do understand," Emmie replied quickly, too quickly. "Everyone keeps telling me the same thing. That he's a flirt, that he can't be serious about anyone. But none of them see him the way I do."
The person's eyes didn't blink. "Because he only shows you what he wants you to see."
She bit her lip, her gaze falling to the mug as if it might give her the right words. "He's different with me. He listens. He remembers the little things, like how I like my tea without sugar or how I tuck my hair behind my ear when I'm nervous. He stays up late talking to me about things no one else would care about. You think a man like that is faking it?"
"Yes," the voice said flatly. "Especially if he's done it before. He's charming. That's the danger. It doesn't help with that Zade guy knowing and doing nothing about it."
Emmie chuckled, soft and a little sad. "You sound like everyone else. Alison said the same thing. So did my best friend. Even my classmate had a warning tucked into a joke about 'James the Heartbreaker.'" She sighed and looked up, defiance flashing in her eyes. "But none of them were there the night I told him about my mother. None of them saw how he held me like I was something fragile, something worth saving. He didn't run. He stayed. That means something."
The person leaned back, studying her. "People like James are good at knowing what you need. And then they become it—until they don't want to anymore. I know you're old enough but I hate that you've given yourself to a man like him. He doesn't deserve you. He will destroy you."
Emmie's voice turned quiet, but stubborn. "He's not pretending. I know he isn't."
"Do you?" There was no mockery in the question, only a sharp-edged concern. "Or do you just want to believe the lie because it's prettier than the truth?"
Emmie stiffened, wounded, but not broken. "Maybe I do. Maybe I want to believe that someone like him could really love someone like me. Is that so wrong?"
"No," the voice said after a long pause. "It's not wrong to want love. But it's dangerous to ignore the storm just because the sunlight feels good for a while. You of all people know what we've been through, you should know better."
The café felt colder suddenly, the hum of chatter too far away. Emmie looked down, her heart caught in a war between hope and warning.
"He said he's never felt this way before," she whispered.
"And how many others did he say that to?" the voice asked gently, standing now. "Just… be careful, Emmie. That's all I came to say. I missed you and I wanted to talk to you, but my shift is starting soon."
And then she was gone- no goodbye. Just the trace of truth left behind in their place. She didn't like their tense relationship, however the love that was blooming for James was difficult to ignore.
Emmie stayed there a long while, watching the steam rise from a mug that had none left.
And still, she smiled.
Because in her heart, James loved her.
And sometimes, belief is louder than reason.