Chapter 56 - 60
Avara POV
The bedroom’s rugged charm is softened by thoughtful details. Wide, weathered wooden beams stretch across the ceiling with dark, aged grain. The walls are clad in honey-toned logs, polished just enough to reveal the wood’s natural knots and texture, which glow warmly in the soft light from a pair of sconces mounted beside the bed.
In the center, a large, inviting bed is draped with layers of thick, woven blankets in earth-toned hues—moss green, slate gray, and deep chestnut—spilling over the sides in a cozy tumble. Pillows in mismatched flannel and rough wool are piled against a solid, hand-carved headboard, which bears subtle etchings of trees and mountains. Nearby, a small nightstand holds a weathered oil lamp and an old leather-bound book.
Near the bed, a sturdy wooden chair sits in the corner, a faded red and black plaid shirt casually slung over the back, and a thick woolen sweater draped over the seat—pairs of worn boots line one flank of the room, scuffed from years of use. I meander over to the wardrobe, mostly empty aside from a few well-worn clothes within.
I slip out of an emerald dress to place it on the foot of the chair as I make my way to the open seat. I pluck the earthy gray sweater and slide it on so it can hang quite heavily, but comfortably, over my body. Daringly, I bring the fabric to my nose for a whiff and I can catch a long-lingering scent like a delicate wisp laced around the woolen fibers—spicy and masculine cologne.
I fetch the dress bundling it in my arms as I leave the room barefoot. The entire cabin smells faintly of pine and cedar, with a trace of wood smoke lingering in the air, as though the shell of its interior has been seasoned by countless fires.
I enter the primary space again, and I stutter to stop when I spot Vance. He reaches up, fingers brushing over the collar of his black shirt, adjusting it. The shirt falls open just slightly, revealing a hint of the crisp white tee underneath, the contrast lending an effortless edge to his look. The dark-washed jeans, well-fitted and subtly worn in all the right places, cling to his legs, highlighting their shape, long and lithe.
As he catches sight of me watching, he pauses, turning to face me fully, an eyebrow raised in amused curiosity. A small, confused smile pulls at his lips, as though trying to puzzle out my gaze.
"Something wrong?"
"Nothing," I murmur, a touch embarrassed but unable to keep the smile off my face. "I’ve just...never seen you in jeans before."
He lets out a low, amused chuckle, glancing down at his own legs as if seeing himself through my eyes. "Well," he says, with a hint of self-consciousness softened by his grin, "You are as surprised as I am." His voice is warm, astonishingly playful, and I feel my own smile widen as we share this simple, unexpected moment—one that feels oddly intimate as if I’m once again witnessing a side of him usually kept tucked away.
He claps his hands, snapping me out of the ephemeral moment. "I’m starving. So I’m not going to check if my dear mate hopefully left something for us to raid—perishables, probably."