Just as Jake predicted, the sky opens up with a vengeance by the time we tow the car back to the cabin. It falls in sheets so thick I can barely see the porch from the truck window.
Jake kills the engine and we make a run for it, arriving on the porch drenched and breathless. I'm laughing—actually laughing—for the first time in weeks.
Inside, the cabin smells incredible. Oscar stands at the stove, and Konnor is methodically filleting what appears to be half a dozen fish on the counter.
"We got dinner," Oscar announces without turning around.
"You were gone for two hours." I push wet hair from my face. "How is that even possible?"
"We know a spot." Konnor towels off his hair. "We've been coming here for years. The fish practically volunteer."
"Very cooperative fish," Oscar adds. "Suicidally so."
Dinner preparations become a group effort, and I gravitate toward Oscar. He welcomes me into his domain with enthusiasm, as if he's been waiting for an excuse to show off.
"Here, let me show you how to score the fillets." He positions himself behind me, his hands covering mine as he demonstrates the angle of the knife. "Shallow cuts, diagonal, about an inch apart. Helps the heat penetrate evenly and lets the seasoning sink in."
His chest presses against my back when he reaches around me for the lemon. His breath is warm against my ear.
"Gentle pressure. Let the blade do the work." He murmurs.
I'm acutely aware of Jake and Konnor watching from the living room. Aware of the glances they exchange.
Aware that Oscar is performing as much as teaching—and that I'm letting him.
"You're a natural," Oscar says, his lips dangerously close to my neck.
"I've never cooked a fish in my life."
"Natural at following instructions, then." His voice drops. "Good to know."
I reach for the wooden cutting board to wipe it down, and pain registers before my brain catches up—a sharp sting that makes me hiss through my teeth.
"Shit."
A splinter, thick and dark, embedded in the meat of my palm just below my thumb.
Even the cabin is conspiring against me now.
"Let me see." Konnor is already moving, his voice shifting into that clinical register I'm starting to recognize. He intercepts me at the sink, examining the wound.
"It's fine. I'll just—" I protest.
"Sit." He points at the table, and it is not a request.
I sit. Konnor retrieves the first aid kit from above the refrigerator and flips it open. His fingers sort through the contents, and then stop. His jaw tightens.
"No tweezers."
"Seriously?" I glance at the splinter still lodged in my palm.
"We've rented this cabin for six years, and suddenly—" He exhales through his nose. "Oscar, did you use the tweezers?"
"I don't remember touching them. Maybe Jake—"
"I didn't touch the kit," Jake says from the couch.
Konnor's expression suggests he's mentally drafting a strongly worded letter to someone. I bite back a smile.
"I can contact the owner," I offer. "Let them know the kit needs restocking. Do you have the listing pulled up?"
Konnor unlocks his phone and hands it to me, already turning to rifle through kitchen drawers. "The Airbnb link should be in my recent tabs."
I scroll to the browser, tap the tab, and freeze.
The listing stares back at me.
The same photos Lena sent when she booked my cabin. The same rustic porch, the same view of the trees, the same address I programmed into my GPS.
"This is my cabin," I say slowly.
Oscar looks up from the stove. "What?"
"The cabin I rented through my assistant." I turn the phone so they can see the screen. "Same address, same listing. We booked the same place."
A beat of silence fills the kitchen.
"The system double-booked?" Jake asks.
"Apparently." I set the phone down. "So I'm not your guest. I'm your... accidental roommate."
"Co-tenant," Oscar corrects, grinning. "Sounds fancier." His grin widens. "The universe wanted us to meet, Kelly Bird. Who are we to argue?"
I don't have a response for that. Mostly because some reckless part of me agrees.
Konnor returns to the table, empty-handed and visibly annoyed by his failed search.
"No tweezers. No needle thin enough." He sits across from me, pulling my injured hand toward him with firm purpose. His fingers are cool and steady as he angles my palm toward the light.
"Field medicine, then."
He lifts my hand to his mouth. My brain short-circuits entirely as his lips part against the heel of my palm, warm and impossibly soft.
I feel the press of his tongue first—a wet, deliberate stroke across the splinter's entry point—and then suction. Gentle but insistent, pulling at the wound, coaxing the fragment toward the surface.
I forget how to breathe.
His mouth is hot, and his eyes are closed, and his lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones, and I'm sitting at a kitchen table while a cardiothoracic surgeon sucks on my palm like it's the most normal thing in the world.
My thighs press together beneath the table without my permission.
He pulls back slightly, his breath ghosting over my damp skin. Examines the wound with clinical detachment.
I see the dark edge of the splinter surfacing, pushed up by pressure and patience.
Then his mouth returns—another pull, slower this time, his tongue tracing the perimeter of the injury with devastating precision.
My free hand grips the edge of the table so hard my knuckles ache.
Make a joke. Say literally anything. Stop staring at his mouth.
But my throat has closed up, and my pulse is pounding somewhere south of appropriate, and Konnor Ortiz has his lips sealed against my skin like he's trying to extract my secrets along with the splinter.
He pulls back. Spits delicately into a napkin. Holds up the fragment—tiny, dark, insignificant—like a trophy he's earned.
"Got it."
His voice is completely calm. Like he didn't just perform the most erotic first aid in medical history.
"You—" My voice cracks embarrassingly. I clear my throat and try again. "You could have warned me."
"Would it have changed anything?"
No. Yes. I genuinely don't know.
My hand is still tingling where his mouth was. I can still feel the ghost of his tongue, the wet heat, the suction that pulled at a need far deeper than a splinter.
Konnor produces an antiseptic wipe from the kit and cleans the wound as if the last ninety seconds hadn't happened.
I glance at Jake and Oscar. Jake's steel-gray eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip and twist.
Oscar isn't even pretending to cook anymore—he's leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching the scene with a knowing smile that makes me want to throw the cutting board at his head.
The silence stretches, thick with unspoken tension that none of us seem willing to break.
"Dinner's ready," Oscar announces finally.
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