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When he groans, a delighted shimmy dances down my spine.

Though I’d expected to build the fire, the same way my mom taught me so many years ago, Shane takes over, crouching to expertly coax kindling into a steady flame.

“I thought you’ve never done this before,” I say, sitting in my chair and opening a water bottle.

“I haven’t.”

“Then why are you so good at it?” I ask, irrationally annoyed. “Why are you good at everything?”

“I suck at skee-ball.”

A laugh rips from deep in my belly.

Shane looks over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth twitching.

I grin as a thought pops into my head. “What if we shared the bed?”

Shane turns his focus toward the growing flame, not answering.

Tension coils in my body, my skin growing tight and uncomfortable.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says after a long moment.

“Why?” My question is barely a rasp.

Would it be so bad to spend a few hours close to me?

I don’t kick in my sleep—that much, anyway. And I can direct my morning breath toward the wall so it doesn’t make him want to gag first thing.

The look Shane gives me is almost painful. “I’m going to want to hold you. I’m going to want to curl you against my chest and kiss you instead of letting you sleep.”

His shaky exhale makes goosebumps break out beneath my borrowed sweatshirt.

Our gazes lock for a few thudding beats before Shane’s jaw tightens. “No.”

Then he mutters something to the flames that sounds suspiciously like “I don’t want to be bad for you.”

I’m barely breathing when he finally settles in the chair next to me, extending a roasting skewer my way. I take it wordlessly, trying to understand what would make Shane think that he’d be bad for me.

He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

Shiny luminescence spreads from beneath my breastbone, over my collarbones, and slides down my arms. Then—in the same breath—someone hits me with that medieval spiky thingy that swings on a chain.

Wait. Do I love Shane?

It’s odd to have an epiphany as someone hands you a bag of marshmallows. My fingers feel numb as I skewer two marshmallows and extend them over the flame.

“No. That’s your favorite word, isn’t it?”

I have no earthly idea why I’m messing with him right now, but it’s like my brain needs to check my heart’s math.

“No.” Shane glances at me, the sharp planes of his face contrasting with his adoring gaze. “I don’t have a favorite word, but if I had to pick one, it’d be Willow.”

“Oh.” A whimper almost leaves my throat, but I tamp it down.

The urge to slay all Shane’s dragons—starting with the nasty ones in his mind—suddenly feels essential. After that, I’m going to drag his chair closer to mine and cradle his face in my hands until his lashes fall closed and all the tension he always carries in his shoulders eases.

My heart and mind are in enthusiastic agreement.