"That should hold you," I say, more to myself than to her, and force myself out the door before I change my mind about leaving.
The creek runscold and fast, filled with trout that dart beneath the surface. I've caught three good-sized ones, enough for dinner and breakfast tomorrow. But I'm in no hurry to return, even though my thoughts keep circling back to Emma.
I clean the fish at the creek, watching the water wash away the blood and scales. The mechanical process gives my hands something to do while my mind wanders.
What am I doing? Playing house with a woman who's passing through my life like a summer storm—beautiful, intense, but ultimately temporary?
She fits too easily into my space, my routines. Watching her navigate the cabin, adapting to life without internet or cell service, learning how my solar system works, asking about the gardens—it feels right in a way I never expected.
Last night, I showed her how to check the battery levels on the solar setup. She asked intelligent questions, her hands moving confidently over the equipment as I explained. Then she looked up at me with those green eyes and said, "This is incredible, what you've built here."
No one's ever looked at my life choices with admiration before. Most people think I'm running away, hiding. Emma sees something different.
She sees me.
And that's the most terrifying thing of all.
When I return to the cabin, the door stands open to the afternoon breeze. I pause at the threshold, struck by the tableau before me.
Emma sits cross-legged on the floor, wearing nothing but another one of my flannel shirts. Her camera is raised to her eye as she photographs Cain and Abel, who are, for once, not fighting but curled together in a patch of sunlight. The shirt has slipped off one shoulder, revealing the freckles that dust her skin there. Her hair is pulled up in a messy knot, tendrils escaping to frame her face.
She hasn't noticed me yet, too focused on capturing the cats. I watch as she shifts position, leaning forward, the hem of my shirt riding up to reveal more of her thigh. She murmurs encouragement to the cats, who ignore her completely in their rare moment of brotherhood.
Something happens to me in that moment—a seismic shift that rearranges everything I thought I knew about myself. The sight of her, so at home in my space, wearing my clothes, caring about my animals, focusing her artist's eye on the small details of my life—it cracks open something I've kept sealed away since I retreated to these mountains. Then a realization drops on me with the force of a felled tree.
I'm in love with her.
The realization comes into focus as a simple truth that's been there all along, waiting for me to acknowledge it. I love Emma Carter.
And I'm completely, utterly fucked.
Abel notices me first, abandoning his brother to wind around my legs. Emma looks up, startled, then breaks into a smile that makes my heart stutter.
"You're back!" She rises in one fluid motion, camera still in hand. "Did you catch anything good?"
Words fail me. I hold up the string of fish instead, watching as she approaches, barefoot and beautiful on my cabin floor.
"Perfect," she says, stretching up to kiss my cheek. "I'll help you cook them."
Her warmth envelops me as she moves past to put her camera away. I stand frozen, watching her move through my space as if she belongs here.
Because she does. Goddammit, she does. She belongs here, with me, and I have no idea what to do with that knowledge.
Days becomea routine that feels as natural as breathing. We settle into patterns that seem like they've always existed:
Mornings: Emma wakes slowly, stretching beside me like a cat. I bring her coffee in bed, watching as she sips it with her eyes half-closed. Sometimes we make love in the quiet dawn light. Sometimes we just lie together, her head on my chest, planning the day ahead.
Mid-mornings: While I work on cabin maintenance or garden tasks, she photographs everything—the plants, the mountains, the wildlife that ventures near. Often I look up to find hercamera pointed at me, and though I grumble, secretly I'm pleased that she finds me worth capturing.
Afternoons: I take her to new places in Thorne Range—hidden waterfalls, meadows filled with wildflowers, rock formations that tell the ancient story of these mountains. She takes hundreds of photos, eyes alight with creative passion. When she captures something that excites her, she throws herself at me, all enthusiasm and joy that I can't help but absorb.
Evenings: We cook together, her kitchen skills improving under my guidance. She stands too close, deliberately brushing against me, smiling when I pull her against me for a moment before continuing with the task at hand. After dinner, we sit on the porch if the weather's good, watching the sun set behind the peaks. Inside, by lamplight, she reviews her photos while I read or carve wood. Our companionable silences, broken only by her occasional exclamations over a particularly good shot, feel more intimate than any conversation.
Nights: In bed, we learn each other's bodies with increasing familiarity. Sometimes fierce and demanding, sometimes slow and tender, but always with an intensity that leaves us both breathless. Afterward, she curls against my side, her breathing slowing as she falls asleep, trusting and vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache.
Through it all, we touch constantly—small gestures that speak volumes. My hand at the small of her back as we move around the kitchen. Her fingers tracing the scar on my cheek when she thinks I'm sleeping. The way she playfully bites my bicep when I'm being stubborn about something. How I can't seem to pass by without dropping a kiss on her forehead, the top of her head, her shoulder.
I find myself watching for her constantly because the cabin feels different when she steps outside—emptier somehow. And when she returns, something in me settles.
