The lake was quiet, save for the distant hum of cicadas and the occasional splash of water against the dock. The lake house was tucked in the trees like a secret, all creaking floors and mismatched quilts—charming in the day, eerie at night. Everyone had gone to bed hours ago, worn out from swimming, laughter, and way too many marshmallows.

You were in the room with the striped comforter and the ceiling fan that squeaked every third rotation. Sleep should’ve come easy after the long day. But it didn’t. Not with your thoughts drifting to the man in the room down the hall.

Joel Miller.

Gruff. Capable. Always looking like he'd rather be anywhere else—until he’d laugh, and suddenly he was the warmest thing in the room. You hadn't come here for Joel. But somewhere between morning coffee on the porch and helping him fix the broken screen door, something had shifted.

You kicked off the covers, sat up, and listened. The whole house was still. You padded out in a hoodie and socks, guided by moonlight and muscle memory, making your way to the kitchen. Maybe tea would help. Or leftover pie.

The dim light was already on.

Joel was standing at the counter, pouring water into the kettle. He looked as startled as you felt—then immediately softened.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice low and rough.