“Okay,” I say. “I’ll do that.”
He leaves without another word, disappearing back down the hallway. A moment later, I hear his bedroom door close.
I pour myself a cup of coffee and stand at the window, looking out at the storm.
It’s worse than yesterday. The snow has piled up overnight, drifts reaching halfway up the windows. The trees are bent under the weight of it, branches drooping toward the ground. I can barely see Tolin’s truck in the driveway, just a vague shape buried in white.
We’re not going anywhere today. Maybe not tomorrow either.
I take a long sip of coffee and try not to think about what that means.
The deep cleaning takes most of the day.
I start in the living room, dusting every surface, wiping down the windows, scrubbing the baseboards on my hands and knees. The solution smell gets stronger as I work, soaking into my clothes, my hair, my skin. By noon, I can barely smellanything else.
Tolin drifts through occasionally. Never speaking, never helping, just watching. He stands in the doorway for a few minutes, arms crossed, then disappears again. Returns an hour later to add wood to the stove. Leaves without a word.
It’s unsettling. The weight of his gaze on my back while I work. The way he seems to be fighting some internal battle every time he looks at me.
I don’t understand him. He hired me to clean, but he seems almost pained watching me do it. Like it bothers him to see me on my knees scrubbing his floors.
But he doesn’t offer to help. Doesn’t tell me to stop. Just watches, tension in his jaw, eyes dark, and then walks away.
The bathroom takes another two hours. I scour the tub, polish the fixtures, replace the towels with fresh ones from the linen closet. By the time I’m done, my arms are aching and my bun has completely given up, curls springing free around my face in sweaty tangles.
I need a shower. Desperately. But I push through, wanting to finish the main areas before I stop for the day.
By late afternoon, I’m exhausted. The cabin smells like lemon cleaner and pine. It looks good. Better than it probably has in months.
I expect Tolin to acknowledge it. To say something, even if it’s grudging.
He doesn’t.
When I offer to make dinner, he shakes his head and grabs another container from the refrigerator. His mother’s food. The venison stew, from the smell of it.
“I’m good,” he says, and disappears into his bedroom with the container and a fork.
The door closes behind him.
I stand in the kitchen, arms hanging at my sides, feeling foolish. Derrick told me to eat in my room. To stay out ofTolin’s way. Last night I thought we’d made progress, sharing a meal, having something like a conversation.
Apparently not.
I heat up some soup for myself and eat it standing at the counter, not bothering with a plate. The cabin feels lonelier now than it did when I arrived. All that space, and a man hiding in his room to avoid sharing a table with me.
Fine. Message received.
I clean up my mess, wipe down the counter, and retreat to the guest room.
My phone buzzes almost the moment I sit down on the bed. Derrick.
“Hey,” I answer. “Everything okay?”
“That’s what I was going to ask you.” His voice is warm, concerned. “How’s it going up there?”
I glance toward the closed door, lowering my voice instinctively. “He’s... weird. But fine. Just a grumpy bear. I can handle it.”
“Weird how?”
