Chapter 5: The what next
Cherry’s breath hitched, trapped somewhere between her ribs and her throat. Devon’s gaze held hers, an unbreakable tether in the dappled sunlight of the clearing. His question – "Scares the shit out of you, doesn't it?" – wasn’t just words; it was a key scraping against a lock deep inside her. For a suspended heartbeat, she couldn’t move, couldn’t think beyond the dark intensity in his eyes. Not confused anymore. Knowing. Seeing too much.
Then, warmth bloomed. It started low in her belly, a slow, honeyed spill that contradicted the icy panic of moments before. It spread upwards, warming her chest, her throat, her cheeks. It wasn't just comfort; it was a melting, a softening of rigid defenses she hadn't known she’d clenched so tight. His nearness, the focused heat of his attention, became a sun she gravitated towards. The rough bark beneath her palms faded, the gurgle of the stream dimmed. There was only the dark forest green of his irises, the faint lines at their corners deepening with his unwavering focus. His scent – pine resin, warm skin, the ghost of coffee – filled her senses, intimate and grounding.
She felt the shift. Subtle, but seismic. The warmth didn't dissipate; it transformed. It deepened, thickening the air between them like syrup. It slid lower, coiling hot and insistent in her core. Awareness sharpened – the rise and fall of his chest, the pulse beating visibly in the hollow of his throat, the memory of his calloused thumb circling her nipple sending phantom sparks across her skin. His lips, slightly parted, drew her gaze. The silence wasn't awkward anymore; it was charged, resonant with everything unsaid, everything felt. The space between them on the mossy log crackled not with tension, but with pure, undiluted want. It was a magnetic pull, drawing her forward, making her breath catch as if her lungs had forgotten how to expand. A low, involuntary sound began to build in her throat, a response to the raw energy thrumming between them. Her lips tingled, remembering the bruising pressure of his kiss against the oak.
But just as the moan threatened to escape, just as the simmering energy felt poised to boil over into touch, into movement, into surrender, Cherry wrenched her gaze away. She snapped her head down, staring fixedly at the vibrant green moss swallowing the toes of her sneakers. The abrupt movement broke the spell like shattering glass. She sucked in a ragged breath, the cool forest air stinging her lungs.
"Right," she blurted out, her voice unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet, shaky but determined. She shoved herself up off the log, the movement jerky, needing distance from the heat still radiating off him. She busied herself with adjusting her backpack straps, pulling them tight with unnecessary force, avoiding his face. "Uh, the summit. We should… we should probably get going if we want to make it before the sun gets too low over the ridge." She gestured vaguely uphill, where the trail disappeared into thicker woods. "Views are supposed to be… really something." Her words tumbled out, flat and rushed, a desperate attempt to overlay the electric silence with mundane planning. She didn’t answer his question. Didn’t acknowledge the molten tension that had just hung between them like ripe fruit, begging to be plucked. She’d skipped right over the precipice he’d named and pointed firmly towards the path.
Devon didn't move immediately. He stayed seated on the log, watching her frantic preparations with an unnerving stillness. She could feel his gaze on her back, heavy and knowing. A muscle flickered in his jaw. He let the silence stretch, thick with everything she refused to voice, before slowly pushing himself to his feet. He picked up his own pack, his movements deliberate, controlled, a stark contrast to her nervous energy. He didn’t call her out. Didn’t press. Just slung the pack over one shoulder.
"Yeah," he said finally, his voice low, rougher than usual. He adjusted the strap. "The summit. Wouldn't want to miss those views." There was no sarcasm, just a quiet acceptance and a lingering undercurrent of something unspoken – frustration, resignation, perhaps a flicker of the same heat she’d just fled from. He took a step towards the trailhead on the far side of the clearing, pausing just long enough for her to fall in beside him. "Lead the way, Cherry."
She didn’t look at him. Just nodded, too quickly, and set off up the trail, her pace brisk, almost punishing. Her heart still hammered against her ribs, but now it was the frantic rhythm of escape. The warmth had retreated, replaced by a familiar, brittle tension. The memory of his eyes, the intensity of the moment she’d shattered, clung to her like cobwebs as she pushed forward, deeper into the green shadows, the promise of the summit a distant, safer goal than the dangerous depths of Devon’s gaze and the terrifying vulnerability he demanded. His footsteps, steady and close behind her, were a constant reminder of the conversation left hanging in the mossy clearing, and the unresolved, simmering energy that walked with them up the mountain.
The steady crunch of his boots on the trail behind her felt like a physical pressure against her spine. Each step echoed the unspoken questions hanging between them, thick as the mountain air. Cherry focused on the path, the rough texture of tree roots underfoot, the way late afternoon sunlight slanted golden through the pines – anything but the simmering energy radiating from Devon. The memory of his dark, knowing eyes in the clearing sent a fresh coil of heat low in her belly, warring with the stubborn knot of panic.
Her backpack straps dug into her shoulders. She adjusted them pointlessly. "Bet the view from the top is insane today," she said, her voice too bright, too loud. "Clear sky, right? Should see all the way to… to wherever." She winced at the awkwardness.
"Sure thing," Devon replied, his tone neutral, giving nothing away. His voice was closer than she expected. He’d closed the gap without her noticing. "Might even see that lake we passed on the map. The blue one."
"Yeah. Blue. Good." She kept her eyes forward, scanning the steepening trail. A squirrel chattered overhead, a sharp, scolding sound. The scent of sun-warmed pine needles and damp earth filled her nostrils, mingling with the phantom trace of his sweat from earlier. Her own skin felt hypersensitive, remembering the rough bark, his hands. She shoved the thought down. "Steep bit coming up," she announced needlessly.
Devon just grunted. She heard the slight shift of his pack, the rustle of fabric. Silence pressed in again, heavier this time. The unresolved tension wasn't just hanging; it was walking with them, breathing down her neck. She felt stripped bare by his perception in the clearing. He’d seen the fear beneath the weed excuse, seen how wanting him terrified her more than any hiker. The ghost of Keith’s judgment – too much, too fast – whispered like a cold draft. She picked up her pace, the burn in her thighs a welcome distraction from the turmoil inside.
The trees began to thin. Patches of open sky appeared, promising the summit was near. The air felt lighter, crisper. Cherry risked a glance skyward, catching a glimpse of soaring hawks riding thermals. A brief, unexpected lightness flickered in her chest. Maybe the view would reset things. Distract them. She slowed slightly as the trail leveled out onto a rocky outcrop. "Almost there," she breathed, more to herself than him.
Devon stopped beside her, not touching, but close enough she felt the warmth radiating from his arm. He was looking at her, not the view unfolding before them – a breathtaking panorama of endless, hazy blue mountains rolling into the distance. "Cherry," he said, his voice low, cutting through the vast silence. It wasn't a question this time. Just her name. A statement.
She turned her head, finally meeting his eyes. The fading sunlight caught the gold flecks in the deep brown, turning them intense, molten. The openness of the summit, the sheer space, made the intimacy of his gaze feel even more profound. The warmth bloomed again, deep and undeniable, washing away the chill of panic for a precious moment. It felt like coming home, like stepping into the remembered warmth of her apartment, the scent of vanilla candles and the soft hum of jazz suddenly vivid in her mind. The cozy sanctuary where she’d laughed freely with him just… when? Yesterday? It felt like another lifetime.
But as she held his gaze, the warmth shifted, deepened. The memory of the apartment’s safety melted into the present danger of this exposed peak. The molten look in his eyes wasn't just warmth anymore. It was something darker, richer. Hungrier. The memory of his mouth on hers, the demanding pressure, the heat of his body pinning her against the oak tree slammed back into her with visceral force. Awareness crackled across her skin like static electricity. Her breath hitched, catching ragged in her throat. A low sound, almost a moan, started to build deep within her chest, a direct response to the raw, naked desire she saw reflected back at her. She felt her lips part involuntarily, her body swaying a fraction towards his magnetic pull.
HE LEANS CLOSER.
Devon leaned closer, a slow tectonic shift that blocked the sun. His breath stirred the tiny hairs near her temple, impossibly warm against the cooling mountain air. The vast panorama vanished, replaced by the dark intensity in his eyes, the sharp angle of his jawline mere inches away.
Not touching. Not yet. Just presence. Overwhelming and deliberate. Cherry’s lungs seized. The almost-moan choked into nothing. The summit’s edge felt terrifyingly close at her back.
"Breathe, Cherry," he murmured, his voice a low vibration that resonated in her own chest. His gaze held hers, unblinking. Demanding truth. "Just breathe." It wasn’t gentle. It was a command that bypassed her panic, forcing her diaphragm to contract, then release. Oxygen rushed in, dizzying.
He didn't move back. The proximity was calculated, an experiment in her breaking point. She felt the phantom heat of his body radiating across the tiny space. Saw the faint pulse beating fast in his throat. Smelled the lingering scent of exertion and pine, mixed with something uniquely him – a musky warmth that triggered the visceral memory of bark scraping her shoulders, his hand under her shirt.
The flush started deep within, a slow, insistent tide rising despite the chill breeze. It wasn't just warmth now; it was a liquid heat pooling low in her belly, tightening her skin. His eyes tracked the flush creeping up her neck. A flicker of satisfaction, dark and knowing, sparked in his gaze. He saw it. He knew exactly what he was doing. Stoking the fire she’d tried so hard to douse by the stream.
She wanted to step back, reclaim the safety of distance. Her feet were rooted to the rock. Trapped between the dizzying drop behind her and the magnetic pull in front. His scrutiny stripped her bare, exposing the raw want beneath the fear. Keith’s critical voice dissolved, silenced by the sheer, undeniable reality of Devon’s presence and the heat he was summoning with mere inches.
He finally spoke, his voice pitched just for her ears over the wind. "See?" The word was soft, almost rough. "Still breathing. Still feeling." He tilted his head slightly, his gaze dropping to her lips for a heartbeat before locking back onto her eyes. "It’s just us up here. Nothing to hide from." He was reconstructing the moment by the oak, stripping away the imagined audience, forcing her to confront the pure, terrifying intimacy of what passed between them.
The shared silence stretched, thick with unsaid things and the amplified sound of their breathing. The tension hummed, a live wire strung between them, charged by his quiet manipulation and her body's traitorous response. He’d named her fear, cornered her with it, and now held her there, feeling every scorching degree of the connection he refused to let her deny.
He finally eased back, just a fraction, releasing the suffocating pressure without breaking eye contact. A slow smile touched his lips, not warm, but satisfied. Triumphant. "Victory lap," he declared, his voice regaining its usual timbre, though deeper now. He swung his backpack off and dropped it onto the sun-warmed rock. "We earned this view. And this." He unzipped a side pocket with deliberate slowness, pulling out a small, opaque plastic container. Not Cherry’s dispensary purchase. His own stash. TONDVPN. He popped the lid, revealing several tightly rolled joints nestled inside. "Celebration."
Cherry stared, her mind still reeling from the intensity moments before. Her hands felt shaky. "I... I shouldn't," she managed, her voice scratchy. The double-edged sword of the high – the way it could obliterate her carefully reconstructed walls – felt too dangerous right now. "Still feelin’ the last one a bit."
Devon just raised an eyebrow, already selecting a joint. He brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply. "Nah," he countered, his tone brooking no argument. Casual, but firm. "That was hours ago. Peak buzz is long gone. This is just… sealing the deal." He held it out towards her, his gaze steady, challenging. "C'mon. Live a little. We’re on top of the damn world." He flicked a lighter to life, the small flame dancing in the breeze. He lit the tip, took a deep pull, holding the smoke. Then exhaled, a slow stream vanishing into the mountain air. He offered it again. "Trust me."
The scent hit her – earthier, sharper than hers. The look in his eyes wasn't just an invitation; it was a test. A dare. After everything he’d just dragged out of her, refusing felt like cowardice. Like admitting he was right about the fear winning. She hesitated, then snatched the joint from his fingers, her knuckles brushing his. The contact sent a fresh jolt through her system. "Fine," she muttered, avoiding his eyes. She took a too-deep drag, coughing immediately as the harsh smoke hit her throat.
"Easy, rookie," Devon chuckled, a low rumble. He retrieved the joint, took another smooth pull. "Savor it." He passed it back.
They smoked in silence punctuated by Cherry’s coughs softening into steadier inhalations. The potent weed hit fast. The panoramic vista blurred slightly, then snapped into hyper-focus. Colors intensified – the deep blues of distant peaks, the vibrant greens of the pines below. The rock beneath her hands felt textured, ancient. Devon’s presence beside her morphed from a source of tension into a solid anchor in the swirling sensations. The awkwardness melted, replaced by a shared, hazy camaraderie. The heat he’d stoked earlier simmered, banked for now, but undeniably present, a warmth radiating from her core outward.
They demolished the remaining trail mix and granola bars, the food tasting explosively good. Pointed out cloud shapes that looked like absurd animals. Laughed, genuinely, at nothing. The awkward push by the oak tree felt like a story from someone else’s life, viewed through the forgiving filter of the high.
The descent was slow, dreamlike. The setting sun painted the sky in fiery streaks as they navigated the switchbacks. Cherry stumbled once; Devon’s hand shot out, steadying her elbow. His touch was firm, brief, but the contact lingered on her skin long after he let go. They didn't talk much, just walked in a comfortable, stoned silence, the crunch of gravel under their boots a steady rhythm. The forest swallowed them again, shadows deepening, but the earlier primal fear didn't return. Just exhaustion and a pleasant, heavy-limbed buzz.
Devon’s parked SUV felt like a spaceship landing pad in the near-dark trailhead parking lot. He opened the passenger door for her. She slid in, the worn leather seat cool. He tossed their packs in the back and got behind the wheel. The engine rumbled to life, headlights cutting twin beams through the twilight. The familiar scent of his car – old leather, faint pine air freshener – wrapped around her. He drove competently, the silence now thick with the day’s accumulated weight and the fading high. Streetlights replaced trees, suburbs replacing wilderness.
He pulled up smoothly to the curb outside her apartment building – the one with the cozy sanctuary upstairs, the vanilla candles, the jazz records. The safe space that suddenly felt very far away. The car idled. He shifted to face her, the dashboard lights casting soft shadows on his profile. The easy camaraderie of the stoned summit was gone. His eyes were serious again, searching hers in the dim interior.
He cleared his throat, the sound loud in the quiet car. "So." He paused, his gaze unwavering. "Can I come up?"
The dashboard lights painted Devon’s face in amber and shadow, highlighting the tension in his jaw, the focused intensity in his dark eyes as he held her gaze. The engine’s low thrum vibrated through the leather seat. "Can I come up?"
Cherry’s pulse, which had finally settled during the dreamy descent, slammed back into overdrive against her ribs. Every nerve ending still hummed from the hike, the potent weed, the unresolved heat simmering between them since the oak tree. The thought of her dimly lit apartment sanctuary, the vanilla candles, the soft jazz – it suddenly felt like a stage set for something terrifyingly intimate. She looked down, fumbling with the seatbelt clasp, her skin buzzing. "I... I'm wiped," she managed, her voice thin. "That hike? Brutal. My body feels... pleasantly pulverized. Like good pulverized, but pulverized." She forced a small laugh. "Seriously need a long, hot shower. Wine down. Crash."
Devon watched her, unblinking, for a heartbeat too long. The silence stretched, thick with the things she hadn't said. Then, a slow, easy smile spread across his face, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Fair." He leaned back slightly against the driver’s door. "Had a blast today, Cherry. Seriously. Even the..." He paused, a ghost of their earlier confrontation flickering. "...unexpected detours." He sighed, the sound exaggeratedly mournful. "Hate when the day ends, though. How about a nightcap? Super quick?" His smile turned deliberately lopsided, a dimple appearing. "Promise I won't bite." He held up three fingers. "Scout's honor. Unless you ask nicely, of course." His tone was light, teasing, but the current beneath it was unmistakable.
Unless you ask nicely. The words slithered under her skin. She stared at his fingers, then back at his face. Five months, her mind screamed. You owe him normalcy. He must get it from someone else if you keep freezing up. The thought tasted bitter, metallic. "Just... just a nightcap," she heard herself say, the words escaping before her fear could clamp down. "One drink. Then I really need to zonk."
"Deal." Devon’s smile warmed, seeming more genuine now. "One drink. Strictly medicinal. For the... pulverization."
Inside her apartment, the familiar scent of vanilla and old books hit her, a comforting blanket she immediately wrapped herself in. "Shower," she announced, already heading down the hall, needing space. "Make yourself at home. Glasses above the sink."
The bathroom door clicked shut, a flimsy barrier. Leaning against it, Cherry closed her eyes, listening. She heard the soft clink of glass from the kitchen, the sigh of the couch springs as he sat. Safe. For now. The shower spray was a benediction, scalding away the sweat, the forest grit, the lingering phantom feel of his calloused thumb. She lingered, letting the steam fill her lungs, the roar of the water drown out her thoughts. She meticulously applied her expensive serums, the oils, the rich moisturizers – a ritual of self-care that felt like donning armor. Divine, she thought, smoothing the lotion over her still-tingling skin, a futile attempt to soothe the deeper ache for him that the hot water only amplified.
Wrapped in a thick towel, she padded into her bedroom, shutting the door firmly. The air felt cool. What constituted 'sexy but casual' at a time like this? She bypassed the silk pajamas – too obvious – and the baggy sweats – too defensive. Settled on soft, dark grey leggings and an oversized, impossibly soft cashmere sweater in deep burgundy. It slipped off one shoulder just so. Comforting, but the fabric whispered against her freshly moisturized skin like a secret. She ran fingers through her damp hair, leaving it loose.
Opening the bedroom door, she nearly collided with Devon, freshly showered and filling the hallway. Steam billowed around him. He wore only low-slung sweatpants, a towel slung around his neck, damp hair plastered to his forehead. Droplets of water tracked paths down the defined planes of his chest, over the ridges of his abdomen. The clean, masculine scent of her soap on his skin was jarringly intimate. Her breath hitched.
"All yours," he rumbled, his voice deeper from the steam, gesturing past her towards the bathroom. His gaze swept over her, lingering on the bare skin of her shoulder. "Smells amazing in there."
"Thanks," she murmured, slipping past him, hyper-aware of the heat radiating from his bare skin. "Soup’s on next."
The kitchen became a sanctuary of mundane action. Chopping onions, carrots, celery. The sizzle of garlic hitting olive oil. The earthy scent of lentils filling the air, mingling with the vanilla. Comfort food. Simple. Safe. Devon appeared, now wearing a faded band t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders, leaning against the doorway. He watched her, silent for a while. "Smells like my grandma’s kitchen," he finally said, a note of genuine appreciation in his voice. "In a good way." He snagged a piece of carrot from the cutting board.
"Hands off the mise en place," she chided, swatting lightly with her wooden spoon, a spark of normalcy. He grinned, unrepentant, popping the carrot into his mouth.
They ate the hearty soup at her small kitchen table, the clink of spoons against bowls loud in the quiet apartment. Conversation was easier now, revolving around the hike, the absurd cloud shapes they’d seen, the blister forming on his heel. Laughter came easier, loosened by the food, the familiarity. Yet, beneath it, the earlier awareness hummed, a low-frequency vibration Cherry couldn’t ignore. Every time his hand brushed hers reaching for bread, every time his gaze lingered a beat too long, the coil inside her tightened.
Moving to the living room felt like crossing a threshold. Cherry turned on the TV, flicking until she found a mindless baking competition – bright lights, frantic energy, a shield. She settled at one end of the plush sofa, tucking her legs beneath her, the oversized sweater pooling around her. Devon sat not at the other end, but squarely in the middle, leaving perhaps a foot between them. He stretched his long legs out under the low coffee table, leaning back. The soft glow from the fireplace danced over his features, the flickering light catching the gold flecks in his eyes as he watched the screen, seemingly absorbed.
But Cherry felt it immediately. The tension wasn't just thick; it was molten, viscous. It poured into the space between them, heavy and charged. The cheerful shouts of the bakers faded to white noise. Her skin prickled with the intensity of his nearness, the memory of his damp chest in the hallway imprinted on her retinas. She focused fiercely on a contestant frantically piping frosting, her knuckles white where she gripped the edge of the sofa cushion.
Devon shifted. Subtly. Just a slight settling back, adjusting his position. His bare foot, resting near her tucked legs under the coffee table, brushed against her ankle. A fleeting, almost accidental contact.
She froze. Stopped breathing.
He didn't pull away. He left his foot there, the warmth of his skin seeping through the thin fabric of her legging. A point of contact burning like a brand. He wasn't looking at her. His profile was calm, angled towards the TV where someone was dramatically dropping a cake. But his foot remained. Anchoring her. Claiming the space.
A slow, deliberate heat spread up her leg from that single point of contact, curling low in her belly. Her heart hammered, a frantic counterpoint to the measured rise and fall of his chest. He hadn't moved further. Hadn't spoken. Just that foot, resting against her ankle, radiating an undeniable, silent question. An open circuit humming with potential. She couldn't look away from the screen, couldn't move her leg, couldn't breathe. The baking show’s frenzy dissolved into meaningless color and noise.
Devon turned his head then, slowly, deliberately. His gaze, when it landed on her, wasn’t watching TV anymore. It was watching her. Dark, intense, holding hers with a quiet certainty that stopped her heart. The playful mask was gone. In its place was the raw, focused intent she’d seen on the summit, amplified tenfold by the intimate quiet of the firelit room. He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just held her gaze, his foot a steady, warm pressure against her skin, waiting.