Chapter 1: Snowbound Confessions
The heat from the tub was a blunt force against the winter. Steam rose in thick, golden plumes, swallowing the edges of the wooden deck and blurring the sharp, black lines of the frosted pines beyond. Underwater, the jets pulsed a constant, throbbing rhythm against skin.
Hannah tilted her whiskey tumbler, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light from the single lantern. The ice had melted twenty minutes ago. Next to her, Steve’s arm was slung over the tub’s edge, his fingers absently tracing patterns on her shoulder. On his other side, Bucky sat with his head back, eyes closed, the dark fall of his hair plastered to his neck by steam and sweat. Natasha was across from Hannah, a faint, unreadable smile on her lips as she watched the stars puncture the bruised velvet of the sky.
“Remember your first kiss?” Hannah’s voice cut through the comfortable silence, sharp and a little too bright. The whiskey was talking. “I mean, your first real kiss. Not the playground peck.”
Steve chuckled, the sound warm and easy. “Jenny Wallis. Eighth grade dance. I stepped on her feet more than I kissed her.”
“Mine was Sarah Miller,” Bucky said, not opening his eyes. “Behind the bleachers. Tasted like cherry lip gloss and nervous sweat.”
Natasha swirled her own drink. “Michael O’Brien. It was… adequate.” She took a sip. “The kisses that come after the first are always more interesting anyway. The ones that mean something. Or the ones that shouldn’t have happened.”
The air in the tub felt suddenly denser. Hannah felt Steve’s hand still on her skin. Bucky opened one blue eye, glancing at Nat before closing it again.
“What about you two?” Hannah pressed, her green eyes flicking between Steve and Bucky. “You’ve been friends forever. You ever, like, practice on each other or anything?”
Steve snorted, a genuine bark of laughter. “What? No. God, no.”
Bucky grinned, finally sitting up. Water sloshed. “Sorry to disappoint, Han. We left the experimental phase for you ladies.”
“Charming,” Natasha deadpanned.
“No, I’m serious,” Hannah said, leaning forward. The water lapped at her collarbone. The whiskey was a low burn in her chest, fuelling a reckless curiosity. “You two have never, ever kissed anyone in this friend group? Before you were with us, I mean.”
The quiet that followed was different. It was a swallowed sound, a held breath. The bubbling of the jets seemed suddenly aggressive.
Steve looked down at the churning water, his fair brows drawn together. Natasha had gone very still, her gaze locked on the distant, too-bright North Star.
“I kissed Steve.”
Natasha’s words were clear, quiet, and dropped into the center of the tub like a stone.
Steve’s head snapped up. “What?”
“It was the party at Liam’s. Last spring. Before you and Hannah were official.” Natasha’s voice was clinical, but her knuckles were white where she gripped the edge of the tub. “We were both wasted. It was in the kitchen, by the fridge. It lasted maybe ten seconds. We never talked about it. We pretended it didn’t happen.”
Steve stared at her, his blue eyes wide with a confusion that quickly tightened into something like betrayal. “Why didn’t you… why didn’t I remember?”
“You blacked out half that night,” Bucky said softly, his earlier levity gone. His gaze was on Natasha, a complex mix of understanding and quiet hurt.
Hannah felt a cold knot form in her stomach, separate from the tub’s heat. Her own secret—Bucky’s mouth on hers, the taste of beer and stupid, impulsive heat—threatened to crawl up her throat. She swallowed it back. This wasn’t about her. This was about the careful, fragile architecture of them all, and Natasha had just kicked one of the supports loose.
“See?” Hannah said, her voice strangely airy. “Interesting. The kisses that shouldn’t happen.” She looked directly at Natasha, a challenge sparking in the humid space between them. “You and I have never kissed.”
Natasha met her look. The guilt in her green eyes hardened into defiance, into a shared, desperate recklessness. “No. We haven’t.”
“We should.”
The words hung in the steam. Bucky straightened up. Steve’s hand fell away from Hannah’s shoulder.
“Han,” Steve started, his tone warning, bewildered.
“Why not?” Hannah said, not looking away from Natasha. “It’s just a kiss. We’re all friends. It’s just… curiosity.” She was already moving, the water offering a weightless, slow-motion resistance as she pushed herself through the center of the tub.
Natasha didn’t retreat. She watched Hannah come, her expression unreadable. When Hannah was inches away, she could see the faint spray of freckles across Natasha’s nose, the rapid pulse at the base of her throat.
There was no more discussion.
Hannah closed the distance.
It wasn’t tentative. It was a direct, full press of mouths. Natasha’s lips were softer than she’d imagined, and they yielded for a half-second before kissing her back with a startling intensity. The world shrank to the rush of water, the shocked silence of the boys, and the shocking rightness of the pressure. Hannah’s hand came up, tangling in the wet, copper strands of Natasha’s hair. A small, desperate sound—from whom, she couldn’t tell—vibrated between them. The taste was of whiskey and chlorine and something uniquely, profoundly Natasha.
It went on too long. It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t performance. It was a dive into a hidden, heated current they’d both been ignoring.
They broke apart, gasping, their foreheads resting together for a fractured second. Hannah’s entire body was acutely aware of the slick nylon of Natasha’s bikini top against her own, the heat of her skin through the thin material. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs.
She pulled back, retreating to her side of the tub in a daze. The cold air hit her wet lips, making them tingle.
Bucky and Steve were statues. Steve’s face was a canvas of pure, uncomprehending shock. Bucky’s was tighter, his jaw clenched, his eyes darting between the two girls as if recalculating everything he knew.
Then Natasha laughed. It was a high, nervous, uncharacteristic sound that broke the spell. Hannah echoed it, the laughter bubbling out of her, tinged with hysteria and a deep, unsettling thrill.
“Okay,” Hannah breathed, still tasting her. “Okay, then.”
Without another word, she slid back next to Steve, fitting herself against his side. His body was rigid. After a moment, his arm came back around her, heavy and automatic. Across the tub, Natasha did the same, sinking into the curve of Bucky’s arm. He held her, but his gaze was locked on the steaming water, his thoughts visibly churning.
The tub bubbled on. The North Star burned, a cold, indifferent eye. The girls sat wrapped in their boyfriends’ arms, the ghost of each other’s mouths lingering on their lips, a new and terrifying secret now binding them together in the thick, conspiratorial steam.
The girls sat wrapped in their boyfriends’ arms, the ghost of each other’s mouths lingering on their lips, a new and terrifying secret now binding them together in the thick, conspiratorial steam.
The silence stretched, broken only by the tub’s artificial gurgle and a distant owl’s call. It was Bucky who finally moved, heaving himself up and out of the water in a shower of droplets. The cold air hit him, raising goosebumps on his skin.
“I’m turning into a prune,” he announced, his voice carefully normal. He tossed a towel at Steve. “Game’s probably on. You want to check the score?”
Steve blinked, as if surfacing from deep water. He looked at Hannah, a question in his blue eyes that she couldn’t quite meet. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “Yeah, okay.”
The shift was clumsy. Towels were wrapped, damp feet padded across the freezing deck boards toward the lodge’s blazing golden windows. Inside, the world snapped back into focus—the scent of pine needles and old wood, the deep pile of the rug underfoot, the overwhelming, comfortable warmth.
The huge living room was dominated by a stone fireplace and a flat-screen TV already tuned to a football highlight reel. The roar of the crowd was a welcome, mindless white noise. Bucky collapsed onto one leather sofa, grabbing the remote. Steve hovered for a second, then followed, sinking into the opposite cushion with a sigh that seemed to deflate him.
Hannah and Natasha exchanged a single glance—a bolt of silent, electric understanding—and moved toward the open kitchen island that overlooked the living room.
“We should eat,” Natasha said, her voice deliberately light. “I’m starving.”
“I’ll help,” Hannah replied, equally casual.
They left the boys to the glow of the screen, the commentary and the tackles filling the space where conversation should be. The kitchen was a world apart, separated by a long breakfast bar strewn with snack bags and empty bottles. Hannah found a pack of chicken breasts in the fridge, Natasha rummaged for onions and peppers.
The sizzle of oil in a pan was a private sound. The chop of a knife on a cutting board felt intensely deliberate. Hannah stood at the counter, slicing a red pepper into thin strips. Natasha stood beside her, peeling an onion, their shoulders almost touching.
Hannah could feel the heat from Natasha’s arm. She stole a glance. Natasha’s profile was intent on her task, but her cheeks were flushed, and her breaths were just a little too quick.
“So,” Hannah whispered, the word almost lost under the sizzle from the stove and the distant roar of the TV.
Natasha’s knife stilled. “So.”
“That was…”
“Yeah.”
Hannah put her knife down. She turned slightly, leaning her hip against the counter. Natasha finally looked at her. Those green eyes were wide, dark with an intensity that made Hannah’s stomach flip.
“What was that?” Hannah breathed, her voice so low it was just a shape in the air between them.
A faint, shaky smile touched Natasha’s lips. “I don’t know. You started it.”
“You finished it.”
They stared at each other. From the living room, Bucky whooped at a touchdown. The sound was alien, irrelevant.
“It didn’t feel like a joke,” Natasha murmured. She brushed a strand of hair from her face, her fingers trembling slightly.
“No.” Hannah’s pulse thrummed in her throat. “It didn’t.”
Their eyes held. The space between them felt charged, thinner. Hannah’s gaze dropped to Natasha’s mouth, remembering the soft, startling pressure. She looked back up to find Natasha doing the same.
“What would it be like,” Hannah whispered, taking a half-step closer, “if nobody was watching?”
The question hung there, dangerous and sweet. Natasha’s breath hitched. She leaned in, not for a kiss, but to speak directly into the space just below Hannah’s ear, her voice a husky thread. “Quieter. Slower.”
Hannah closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them, Natasha was reaching past her for the salt grinder. Her hand brushed Hannah’s waist, a casual, accidental contact that lingered. Fingers spread, pressing lightly against the thin fabric of Hannah’s sweatshirt for a heartbeat too long before pulling away.
The touch burned.
Hannah picked up her knife again, her hands unsteady. She focused on the pepper, turning it into a neat pile of julienne strips. Natasha added the onions to the hot pan. They worked in a new, loaded silence, a conversation conducted in glances and proximity.
When Hannah needed to pass the chopped chicken, she did so with a bare hand, her fingertips grazing Natasha’s palm. Natasha accepted the bowl, her fingers closing, not around the ceramic, but over Hannah’s, a brief, deliberate squeeze before letting go.
A shiver ran straight through Hannah.
They could hear Steve complaining about a referee call, Bucky laughing. The normalcy of it was a fragile shell around the kitchen’s hidden core. Every shared look was a confession. Every brush of arms was a question.
Natasha stirred the sautéing onions, her back to the living room. She spoke without turning, her voice so low Hannah had to lean in to catch it. “It would be like this,” Natasha whispered. “Just this. But without having to listen for them.”
Hannah stood beside her, watching the onions translucent in the oil. Her pinky finger found Natasha’s where it rested on the countertop, hooking around it. A tiny, secret link.
“Just this,” Hannah repeated, the words a promise and a fear, “would be a pretty big thing.”
“Just this,” Hannah repeated, the words a promise and a fear, “would be a pretty big thing.”
Natasha turned her head. Their faces were close, too close, the steam from the pan rising between them. Hannah could see the faint gold flecks in the green of her eyes, the quick flutter of a pulse at her temple. Natasha’s gaze dropped to Hannah’s mouth.
The space closed. It was gravitational. Hannah’s breath caught, her lips parting almost in anticipation of the softness, the heat, the rightness that had already upended her world.
The spell shattered.
“Smells amazing in here.”
Steve’s voice, cheerful and overloud, cannoned through the kitchen. Natasha cleared her throat, a sharp, deliberate sound, and stepped back as if scalded. She turned quickly to the stove, vigorously stirring the now-sizzling chicken and vegetables.
Hannah felt the loss of warmth, of proximity, like a physical chill.
Steve walked up behind Hannah, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He pressed the full length of his front against her back, his chin coming to rest on her shoulder. She felt the damp of his sweatshirt, the solid muscle of his chest.
“Hey,” she said, the word soft, an automatic endearment that felt strangely hollow in her own ears.
“When’s grub ready?” he asked, his hands sliding around to splay possessively over her hips. His thumbs rubbed small circles against the low-slung waistband of her leggings.
“Soon,” Hannah said, her eyes flicking to Natasha. Natasha’s posture was rigid, her focus laser-locked on the frying pan.
Steve nuzzled into the side of her neck, his breath warm against her skin. He dropped his voice to a low, rough whisper meant only for her. “Good. Need you fuelled up. ‘Cause later, I’m gonna tie that ridiculous silk scarf of yours around my headboard and keep you right there until you can’t remember your own name.”
Heat flooded Hannah’s face, a fierce, prickling blush that crawled from her chest to her hairline. It was a specific fantasy she’d whispered to him once in the dark, half-embarrassed by her own desire for that kind of sweet, total restraint. To hear it now, here, in the bright kitchen with Natasha three feet away… She cleared her throat, a desperate, stifled sound.
Natasha obviously heard it. Her stirring never paused, but a faint, almost imperceptible flush touched the back of her neck. She kept to herself, but the idea, the vivid, unbidden image it conjured, sent a low, unwelcome thrum of heat through her own body. She stared harder at the searing chicken.
“Steve,” Hannah said, her voice strained. She pushed against his arms slightly. “Behave.”
He chuckled, a vibration against her spine. He gave her hip a final squeeze before stepping back. As he turned to go, his hand came down in a playful, stinging smack on her backside. The sound was loud in the tiled kitchen.
“Hurry up, chef,” he called over his shoulder, ambling back toward the football game.
The moment he was out of earshot, Hannah turned. Her face was still burning. “Nat, I’m so sorry,” she blurted, the words tumbling out in a pained whisper.
Natasha finally looked up from the stove. Her expression was carefully smoothed into neutrality, but her eyes were dark, unreadable pools. She gave a tiny, stiff shrug. “For what? His hands? His mouth?” She paused, the corner of her lip twitching. “The spanking?”
“For all of it,” Hannah breathed, hugging herself. “That was… he’s just…”
“He’s your boyfriend,” Natasha finished, her tone flat. She turned off the burner. The sudden silence was intense. “And he’s waiting for his dinner. It’s ready.” She picked up the hot pan, her movements efficient and closed-off. “You should get the plates.”
She carried the food to the breakfast bar, not waiting for a reply. Hannah stood frozen in the kitchen, the ghost of Steve’s touch on her skin, the ghost of Natasha’s lips on hers, warring beneath the echo of that one, shocking word.
Don’t be sorry, a treacherous part of her mind whispered, watching Natasha’s retreating back. Don’t you dare be sorry.
But she was. And she wasn’t. And the confusion of it was a knot she couldn’t begin to unpick.