"So," I say, desperate to sound casual and not like my internal monologue has turned into a Hallmark movie script. "You always drag lost tourists home?"
He doesn't look up, but I catch the hint of a smile. "Only the stubborn ones who refuse to pay attention to the elements and get the hell off the mountain when they should."
“Stubbornness is my best quality."
"Noticed."
I grin into my cocoa. The liquid's still hot enough to burn, sweet enough to coat my tongue. "Was that…a compliment?"
He raises an eyebrow. "Is calling someone stubbornevera compliment?”
“It is to me,” I say with a shrug. I sip my drink and let the silence stretch, because silence here feels different. Not awkward. Just…thick. Cozy. Full of things unsaid and the soft crackle of burning pine.
The cabin's tidy but full of life. Tools are lined up with military precision, there are half-finished projects on the workbench, and scraps of metal wait to be reborn. The whole place hums with quiet purpose. I wander toward the bench and pick up a small sculpture shaped like a bird mid-flight, wings made from welded saw blades that catch the lamplight like feathers.
"This is beautiful," I say softly, running my finger along the smooth edge where he's filed away any sharpness. "You made it too?"
He glances over, nods once. "From an old handsaw."
"You really see potential in everything, don't you?"
He shrugs, busy with the kettle again. The metal squeaks slightly as he lifts it. "Things get old. They break. That doesn’t mean they’re trash."
There's something in his tone—not sad, just true—and it sticks to me like snowflakes on the cold ground.
"You ever sell them?" I ask.
"Sometimes. Mostly I trade."
"For what?"
"Coffee. Gas. Hardware."
Interesting. Mountain men have their own economy, it seems.
I set the bird back carefully, then glance out the small window. The snow's falling in thick sheets, wind swirling like a living thing. I can barely see the treeline anymore. Just white and gray and the ghostly shapes of pines bending in the gusts. "Guess I really can’t leave the mountain tonight, huh?"
He follows my gaze, then moves to check the latch on the door. His hand's broad, calloused, sure. "Not tonight."
"Well." I spread my hands, grin. "Looks like you're stuck with me."
He doesn't answer, but his mouth does that almost-smile thing again, and I count it as a victory.
By the time we finish dinner—beans simmered with bacon, cornbread that crumbles golden and sweet, and something that might be venison seasoned with juniper—I'm half in love with the smell of woodsmoke and half delirious from warmth.
He eats in silence, but it's not unfriendly. I babble enough for both of us, filling the air with stories about my grandpa, my first metal detector (which was really just a frying pan and a five-year-old’s imagination), and the legend that brought mehere. He listens with his head tilted slightly, like he's actually hearing every word, and that attention feels more intimate than it should.
When I finally stop to breathe, he leans back, studying me with that unreadable expression. Firelight flickers across his face, catching in his dark eyes. "You really think there's gold up here."
I shrug. "I think there's truth in every story. You just have to dig for it."
"You always chase stories?"
"Someone has to. Otherwise they fade." I trace the rim of my empty bowl. "And my grandpa would haunt me if I didn't at least try."
That earns me another quiet hum, the kind that sounds suspiciously like approval.
The fire pops, sending up a spray of orange sparks. Outside, the wind's softened to a whisper, like the mountain's finally catching its breath.
