Page 54 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

But dreams are just that.

Make-believe.

Or wishes, maybe—if you’re stupid enough to admit you have them.

When I wake, the sun is bright and clear, pouring through the window in a clean wash of light that feels almost offensive after last night’s storm.

The mud outside is already drying beneath it, the world pretending the thunder never happened.

Clara is still asleep.

She’s on her side, hair spilled across my pillow in a messy dark fan, lips parted slightly as she breathes.

One arm is tucked under her cheek, the other draped across my sheets like she belongs here.

For a moment I just watch her.

Not like a creep.

Like a man trying to memorize something he knows he’s going to lose.

And fuck, that about breaks my heart.

In the sunlight she’s even more beautiful.

Last night she was storm-lit and wild-eyed, all sharp edges and survival. Now she’s soft.

Warm. Peaceful.

Her skin looks pale and pretty against the dark blankets.

She has a tattoo—high on her right shoulder—inked in bright lines even in the muted morning light.

A sunflower.

My throat tightens.

Sunflowers turn toward the sun.

They reach for light even when everything else is gray.

I lean down before I can talk myself out of it and press a kiss to the tattoo—slow, careful.

Like I’m apologizing for what I’m about to do.

Clara shifts, makes a small sound in her sleep, and my chest aches harder.

I slide out of bed quietly.

I can’t keep her.

I know I can’t.

Not even if I want to.

Especially if I want to.

Because Clara doesn’t belong here.