Chapter 3: Nausea and Old Scars

Morning light clawed through the blizzard, thin and gray. Amelia woke on the couch with her stomach already twisting hard. She shoved the blanket aside, oversized sweater bunching at her hips, and bolted for the bathroom down the short hall.

Her bare feet slapped the cold floor. One hand flew to her middle out of pure habit. The baby didn't stir, but the nausea didn't wait. It surged up her throat like it owned her.

The door stuck. She yanked harder, breath short. Inside, she dropped to her knees just as everything came up in violent heaves. Tears burned her eyes. She gripped the porcelain, trying to keep quiet, but the sounds bounced off the tile anyway.

Griffin heard it from the bedroom. The retching sliced through the wind's low howl. He sat up fast, heart kicking against his ribs. Five months of nothing, and now this. She was sick. The realization sat somewhere between anger and a sharp, unwanted jab of worry.

He dragged on a shirt and crossed the great room in long strides. The bathroom door wasn't locked. He pushed it open and found her slumped against the tub, auburn hair plastered to her damp forehead, one arm curled tight around her middle while she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Jesus, Amelia." His voice came out rough, that familiar rasp thicker than he wanted. He crouched beside her, close enough that her faint shampoo cut through the sour air. "What the hell is going on?"

She jerked back, or tried to. The space was too tight. Their knees knocked together. Heat flared where they touched, stupid and immediate. She bit her lower lip hard, the way she always did when she was lying or fighting the pull or both.

"It's nothing. Bad leftovers from yesterday." The words spilled out too quick. She stared at the faucet instead of him, willing the sickness to pass before he noticed how her sweater had ridden up again.

Griffin didn't believe a word. His eyes caught the shake in her fingers, the way her skin looked too pale against those faint freckles. She seemed exhausted. Fragile. It tightened something in his chest he refused to examine. Without thinking he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers stayed on her warm skin a second too long.

"You look like hell," he said, flat. "And you don't get food poisoning from canned soup. Talk to me."

The rough concern in his tone nearly cracked her open. Nearly. Amelia pushed up on shaky legs, using the sink for balance. Their bodies brushed in the cramped room—his broad chest against her shoulder, the solid heat of him making her pulse jump. She wanted to lean in. She wanted to shove him away.

"I said it's nothing." She twisted the tap and splashed cold water on her face to cover the flush climbing her neck. "Go back to bed, Griffin. Or make your coffee. Whatever."

He stood, filling the doorway so she couldn't slip past without touching him again. His dark eyes narrowed, that calculating brain already turning over every detail. The way she'd guarded her stomach yesterday. The firmness he'd felt under his fingers. The jumpiness that didn't add up.

She's been gone five months and shows up pale, wrapped in clothes two sizes too big. If this is some kind of illness—

"Fine," he said after a long beat, stepping aside just enough. "But this isn't over. You don't get to puke in my cabin and act like everything's normal."

Amelia edged past him. Their arms grazed and electricity raced over her skin. She hated how her body still remembered his, how even sick and scared she felt that low tug in her belly. The baby gave a soft flutter right then, a secret reminder that made her curl her fingers into her sleeves.

In the great room the fire had died to embers. She knelt to feed it another log, careful with every move. The sweater hung loose but not loose enough if she wasn't paying attention. Griffin watched from the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest. His knuckle scar showed white as he rubbed it once, slow.

He started the coffee without asking. Black for him. For her he measured out the herbal tea from their divided supplies, the motion so familiar it made her throat tight. Muscle memory didn't care about five months apart.

"Here." He set the mug on the low table near the couch. Steam rose between them like an unanswered question. "Sit before you fall over."

She did, knees drawn up, coat still buttoned tight over the sweater. The fire caught again, throwing warm light across his face. His dark hair fell across his forehead. He pushed it back with an impatient hand, the gesture so known her fingers twitched like they wanted her sketchbook.

They drank in silence. The wind screamed outside, rattling the cracked window where the towel still fluttered. Cold leaked in, making the big room feel smaller than ever. Amelia's stomach settled enough that she could sip the tea. It tasted like every bad choice she'd ever made.

Griffin set his mug down. "You used to say something. When things got intense. Before you ran."

Her eyes flicked to his. The word sat heavy on her tongue. She swallowed it but a piece slipped free anyway.

"Old habits," she murmured, biting her lip again. "Doesn't mean anything now."

His gaze went darker. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Bullshit. You don't slip by accident. Not you."

The air between them charged up fast. She felt the heat building again, that stubborn current of want that wouldn't die no matter how many times she told herself they were poison. His shoulders flexed as he shifted closer. Close enough that she caught his scent—soap, cedar, and that darker edge that always made her stupid.

She needed air. "Why do you hate storms so much?" The question tumbled out, anything to pull his focus off her.

Griffin went still. The fire popped. For a long moment she thought he wouldn't answer. Then he rubbed the scar on his knuckle again, slower this time, like the motion cost him.

"Doesn't matter," he said, voice clipped. "Old shit."

The half-answer hung there, raw enough to make her chest ache. She wanted to push. She also wanted to keep her own walls up. Compassion and self-preservation warred so hard she had to look away. His intensity always pulled at her like this—offering pieces while demanding everything.

Before she could decide, the wind slammed against the cabin hard enough to make the windows rattle. The power flickered once, twice, then died completely. The fire became the only light, painting his tan skin in shifting gold and shadow.

Amelia shivered and pulled her coat tighter. The motion made the fabric pull across her middle. She caught Griffin staring before he masked it. His jaw tightened. That analytical mind of his was clearly adding things up, even if he hadn't named them yet.

He stood and grabbed a spare blanket from the chest, draping it over her shoulders without a word. His fingers brushed the side of her neck. The touch lingered, warm and deliberate. Her breath caught. She hated how badly she wanted to turn into his hand.

"You're freezing," he said, low. The rasp was back, the one that always unraveled her. "And you're still not telling me the truth."

She looked up at him. The firelight made his eyes look almost black. For one suspended second the storm outside faded. There was only the rough warmth of his fingers, the way his gaze dropped to her mouth like he remembered exactly how she tasted. Her heart beat so hard she was sure he could hear it.

His other hand settled on her knee, squeezing once. The contact burned straight through the layers. She wanted him to slide that hand higher, to pull her close and forget every reason this was dangerous. The ache low in her body was instant and undeniable.

"Amelia." His voice had gone to gravel. "Stop running from this. From us."

She was inches from closing the gap when a sharp crack sounded from the kitchen—something in the pantry shifting from the wind's vibration. The noise broke the moment like a slap. Griffin pulled back, jaw tight, but not before she saw the raw frustration and want carved across his face.

He stood and stalked to the kitchen to check the noise, leaving her breathing too fast on the couch. Amelia pressed her hands to her cheeks, trying to cool the flush. The baby fluttered again, a tiny secret kick that felt like a warning.

She reached for her mug only to realize her sketchbook had slipped from under the blanket when she'd moved. It lay open on the floor. One of the pages she'd forgotten to tear out stared up—Griffin at the stove last night, shoulders tense, but with softer lines around his eyes that gave away too much. In the margin she'd idly drawn a small curled shape. A baby. The lines were faint but clear.

Griffin turned back from the pantry. His eyes landed on the open book. His whole body went still.

He crossed the room in two strides and picked it up. The scar on his knuckle stood out stark as his grip tightened on the pages. His face gave nothing away as he looked from the drawing to her.

"Amelia." His voice was dangerously quiet. "What the fuck is this?"