The cabin door swings open, and we step inside looking exactly like what we are: two people who just had sex in a truck during a rainstorm.
My hair has achieved a level of chaos that would require professional intervention to correct—half-dried in wild waves, the other half still damp and tangled beyond recognition.
Jake's flannel is buttoned wrong, the fabric pulling awkwardly across his chest where he missed a hole in the dark, and neither of us can stop the stupid satisfied smiles pulling at our mouths.
Until we see Konnor and Oscar.
They're standing in the kitchen like they've been waiting for hours, which they probably have. The remnants of dinner sit abandoned on the counter, and the silence that greets us carries a weight I wasn't prepared to bear.
The jealousy in their eyes hits me like a physical force.
Oscar's usual grin is tight, stretched across his face like a mask that doesn't quite fit. His honey-colored eyes sweep over me, cataloging every detail I can't hide.
The whisker burn blooming across my neck, my lips still swollen and tender, the flush that hasn't faded from my cheeks despite the cold walk from the truck.
Konnor's dark gaze is worse. He stands with his arms crossed, his expression carved from granite, and I watch him register the way Jake's hand rests possessively on my lower back.
"You found her," Oscar says, and his voice is perfectly pleasant in a way that makes my skin crawl. "We were starting to worry the forest had swallowed our mysterious guest whole. Though clearly you managed to locate her without too much difficulty."
The emphasis on locate lands like a slap I can't acknowledge.
"I got lost in the rain," I manage, but the excuse sounds pathetic even to my own ears. "Jake came looking for me, and we—"
"We can see what you did." Konnor's interruption is clinical, detached. "The evidence is fairly comprehensive."
Jake steps forward, and I feel the loss of his warmth against my spine like a physical absence. "Look, we didn't plan for this to happen. Kelly was upset about something on her phone, and—"
"And you comforted her." Oscar's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Thoroughly, from the looks of it. How very heroic of you, Jake. Rescuing damsels in distress seems to be your specialty this week."
"Oscar." Jake's voice carries a warning. "Don't."
"Don't what? Don't notice that you've been monopolizing our guest while Konnor and I sat here like idiots, wondering if she'd drowned in a ditch somewhere?" Oscar pushes off from the counter, his movements sharp with barely contained frustration. "Don't point out that you conveniently failed to mention that her car—"
"The car's fixed." Jake's announcement cuts through Oscar's tirade, and the words land in my chest like stones dropped into still water. "The axle's repaired, engine's running clean, everything's good to go." His steel-gray eyes find mine, and I can't read the emotion in them. "You can leave whenever you want, Kelly."
My stomach drops through the floor.
I don't want to leave.
The thought is loud and terrifying, echoing through the hollow space behind my ribs.
I don't want to leave this cabin. I don't want to leave these men who've seen me at my worst and haven't run yet.
I don't want to return to a world where I'm Kelly Goodwin, disgraced and pregnant and alone.
But admitting that feels impossible with three sets of complicated emotions tangled around me, with jealousy and hurt and expectation pressing in from every direction.
So I do what I've always done when vulnerability feels too dangerous. I throw up walls.
"Actually, this cabin is technically mine too." The words come out defensive in a way that sounds like aggression. "I booked it through my assistant. I paid for it. The double-booking was the rental company's error, not mine, which means I have just as much right to stay here as any of you do."
The silence that follows is absolute.
I watch my words land badly—a power play when vulnerability was needed, a legal argument when honesty would have opened doors.
Oscar's expression shutters completely, the tight smile vanishing into something blank and closed. Konnor's jaw tightens until the muscle beneath his cheekbone visibly jumps.
Even Jake steps back, confusion flickering across his features, his brow furrowing as he tries to reconcile the woman who just came apart in his arms with the one standing before him now.
"You're invoking property rights," Konnor says, and his voice is cold enough to make me shiver. "That's your response to being told you're free to leave. Not I want to stay or I'm not ready to go—you're citing your legal claim to the rental agreement."
"I didn't mean it like—"
"You meant it exactly like that." Oscar's voice has lost all its warmth. "You meant it as a reminder that you're Kelly Goodwin, heiress to a fortune, CEO of whatever's left of your reputation, and we're just three fishermen who happened to crash your escape plan."
"Oscar—" I try but he shakes his head slowly.
"I thought we were past that, Kelly. I thought the last few days meant—" He stops himself. Swallows whatever he was going to say.
"Fine," Konnor says, and the word is a door slamming shut. "You have every legal right to remain in this cabin. We'll discuss logistics in the morning—bathroom schedules, kitchen access, whatever boundaries need establishing between co-tenants who apparently share nothing but square footage."
"Konnor, that's not what I—"
"It's late." He's already turning away, dismissing me with his posture before his words confirm it. "Oscar, you should get some sleep. Jake—" A pause that carries the weight of disappointed friendship. "Do whatever you want. You clearly will regardless."
He disappears down the hallway without looking back.
Oscar follows, his shoulders tight, his stride carrying none of its usual easy grace. At the threshold of his room, he pauses just long enough to glance over his shoulder.
"Sweet dreams, Kelly Goodwin," he says. "Hope the property feels worth what you paid for it."
The door closes behind him with a soft click that sounds like a verdict.
Jake stands in the middle of the living room, rainwater still dripping from his hair, looking at me like I've transformed into someone he doesn't recognize.
"Why did you say it like that?" His voice is quiet, bewildered. "You could have just said you wanted to stay. You could have just been honest with them—with all of us."
Because honesty gets you hurt. Because vulnerability is a weapon other people use against you.
Because the last time I was honest with a man about what I wanted, he called me a slut and then destroyed my life.
But I can't say any of that. Can't explain the calcified layers of self-protection that make me reach for power when softness would serve me better.
"I should get some sleep," I hear myself say instead. "It's been a long night."
Jake watches me walk away, and I feel his confusion follow me down the hallway like a question I don't know how to answer.
I close the bedroom door behind me and lean against it, my heart pounding, my hands shaking, my mind replaying every wrong word I just spoke.
The ceiling stares back at me when I finally lie down, and I spend the next three hours counting the knots in the wooden beams while wondering how I managed to ruin everything in a single sentence.
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