“So,” she begins, pouring the thick tinned soup into the pot. “About these survival skills. You clearly know what you’re doing up here. You built this place, apparently. You’ve got supplies for days. Were you always this… self-sufficient?”
I pour some water into the pot. “Came in handy where I was.”
She pauses, stirring the soup with a wooden spoon. “Where was that? If you don’t mind me asking.”
I hesitate, mainly because my past is a minefield. Every answer I give is a potential explosion of memory. And with a memory bank filled with the brutality of war, that's not a pretty sight.
But Penny… she has a way of asking that feels less like prying and more like genuine curiosity. Like a gentle nudge, not a crowbar.
“The military,” I say, the words feeling heavy on my tongue after so long.
Her eyes widen slightly. “Oh. Right. I… I remember hearing that. From my parents. That you joined up. Did you go on a lot of tours?”
I nod, staring into the simmering soup.
"More than I can count."
More than I wanted.
“That must have been… intense,” she says softly, her tone devoid of the usual pity I encounter. “I can’t even imagine what that must have been like.”
“You don’t want to,” I mutter, the images already trying to claw their way to the surface. Dust, screams, the unforgettable smell of human flesh melting.
She’s quiet for a moment, letting the silence hang and not pushing.
It’s remarkably comfortable, this quiet understanding while doing something so…normal.
Most people either badger you with questions or tiptoe around you as if you’re a ticking time bomb.
Penny just… accepts.
“Well then,” she muses, changing the subject with a gentle pivot that I appreciate. “What’s your favorite thing about living up here? All alone with the… bears. And the… inspiration.”
Her lips curve into a playful smile, and a bolt of pure, unadulterated lust hits me.
It's not just her mouth, that soft, pink curve promising things I shouldn't want.
It's how that smile dances in her eyes, the brightness behind them challenging me to look away. It's how the firelight catches the gold highlights in her messy blonde hair, making me want to tangle my fingers in it.
It's how her yellow sweater clings just right to the generous curve of her breasts, the soft wool begging to be peeled away.
My gaze drifts lower, lingering on the sway of her hips as she stirs the pot.
A primal heat flares low in my gut, a possessive hunger that hasn't stirred in years.Years.
Fuck.I want to push her against the counter, feel that soft body pressed against mine. Hear that cheerful chatter dissolve into needy moans as I taste the skin at her throat.
The realization shocks me with its violence.
This isn't just noticing she's pretty. This is a visceral, demanding need to claim her, to erase every thought but mine from her mind.
It's dangerous. Stupid. And utterly, terrifyingly undeniable.
“Peace,” I say, perhaps too quickly, squeezing my eyes shut to stop the wicked thoughts entering my mind. “I enjoy the peace and quite up here. Alone.”
She hums and bites that sultry bottom lip, the sight nearly making me lose control altogether.
“I get that. Sometimes the world is just… too much. Too loud. Too many expectations.” She glances at me, a knowing look in her eyes. “My parents… they mean well. But living athome, trying to launch my art studio, dealing with all the ‘what are you going to do with your life, Penny?’ questions… it gets exhausting.”
