The Wind We Keep
The cabin creaked under the assault of the wind, its ancient cedar walls groaning as if in protest. Clara sat beside the window, watching rain streak down the glass, listening to the wind scream through the trees. Mateo joined her, not because he had planned too, but because he liked the sound of the wind. That was his excuse anyway. He liked the sound of her voice too.
Mateo had arrived two days earlier. His mom had sent him to visit on the pretense of reconnecting with her after a long time. Clara knew better. She had watched him from across the yard, had watched him laugh in the rain, had watched him walk through the woods with purpose. Tonight, watching him stand beside the window, she realized how rarely he left the house. How rarely he spoke. It unsettled her. She liked the sound of his voice, the way he laughed, the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn't looking. It unsettled her because she liked it.
The wind picked up, rattling the door. Clara went to close it, then returned to the window. Mateo was still there. He looked up at her. They locked eyes. Clara felt the warmth of the cabin, the isolation, the tension that had been growing between them. They talked about the evening, about the wind, about the damage the storm had done to the roof. They talked about the things they had avoided before.
Later, after the wind eased, Clara invited him upstairs. The guest room was upstairs, with floorboards that groaned underfoot. Mateo followed her without question. Clara closed the door. The silence that followed was thick, charged. Neither moved for a long moment. Clara finally spoke. "You're still here." It was a statement, not a question. Mateo answered. "I wanted to be." His voice was low, careful. Clara smiled. It was not the answer she had expected, but it was the one that made her heart race. It was the one that made her want to touch him.
She moved closer, and he did not step back. They kissed slowly, lingering, tasting the warmth of the cabin, the warmth of each other. The bed was simple, wooden, with two pillows stacked beside the window. Clara pulled him down beside her. They talked about the things they had avoided. They talked about how they liked to watch the wind, how they liked to stay in. They talked about the future. Not the future of their families, but the future of them. Clara asked plainly. "Do you want to stay?" Mateo answered plainly. "I'm not leaving."
The night became longer. They talked and touched. Clara felt the heat of him rise under the thin covers, the weight of him as he lay beside her. They kissed again and again. Clara made love to him, not because she wanted to, not because she felt like she should, but because she wanted to. Because he wanted to. Because they were both consenting adults in the middle of the woods. Because the silence of the cabin surrounded them, because the wind howled outside, because there would be consequences. Clara thought of the risk. She thought of the secrecy. She thought of the future.
When they finally fell asleep, the cabin remained soundproofed by the storm. Clara woke before Mateo, listening to the wind, listening to the silence. She looked at the empty bed beside her and knew that the future they chose was not one for the morning.