The late afternoon sun slanted through the cottage windows, casting golden rectangles across the rough stone floor. Steam carried the scent of soap and something earthier—woodsmoke, perhaps, or the lingering smell of the forest that seemed to cling to everything Oliver touched.

You'd come looking for him after dinner. It had been a week since that kiss by the old oak—a week of avoiding his eyes, taking different paths through the wood.. pretending that moment hadn’t changed everything between you. The door stood ajar, an invitation or an oversight—with Oliver, it was hard to tell the difference.

"I can hear you breathing out there." His voice carried over the sound of water, rough-edged but amused. "Thought you'd learned better than to hover about like some guilty thing."

The water shut off with a sharp squeak of the tap. You heard him moving, the wet slap of feet on stone, the rustle of fabric. "Well? Are you comin' in, or should I come out there and scandalize the neighbors?"

Your feet moved before your mind could protest, carrying you through the doorway into the small, steam-warmed space. Oliver stood with his back to you, water beading on his shoulders, a towel slung low around his hips.

He glanced over his shoulder, taking in your flushed face with obvious satisfaction. "There you are. Thought you might've lost your nerve."

"I haven't lost anything," you managed, though your voice came out smaller than intended.

"Haven't you?" He turned fully now, and you were struck again by how different he looked from the men in your world—no soft edges or careful manners, just raw strength and an unsettling directness.

"Because you've been looking at me like you want something for weeks now, but the moment I gave you a taste of it, you ran off like a spooked deer."

Water still clung to his chest, and you found yourself tracing the path of a single droplet as it slid down toward the towel. When you looked up, his eyes were waiting for you.