He moves past me toward the hallway, and I catch his scent. Pine and woodsmoke and that deeper, earthier note I noticed before. It settles over me, warm and familiar, and I hate how much I want to lean into it.
“That’s it?” I call after him. “You destroy my property, trap me here, and now you’re just going to walk away?”
He stops. His back is to me, shoulders tense beneath his flannel shirt.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know!” I’m on my feet now, though I don’t remember standing. “An explanation? An apology? Something that makes any of this make sense?”
He turns slowly. He looks exhausted. Worn down. Like the past day has aged him years.
“I’m sorry.” His voice is rough, low. “What I said to you. What I did. There’s no excuse for it. I was cruel, and you didn’t deserve any of it.”
The apology surprises me more than it should.
“That’s not an explanation.”
“No.” He holds my gaze. “It’s not.”
“Then explain. Make me understand why you—“ My voice cracks, and I hate myself for it. “Why you said those things. Why you broke my phone. Why you won’t let me leave.”
His expression shifts. Pain, maybe. Or fear.
“I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.” He looks away, not meeting my eyes. “Not yet. Not tonight. I just...” He trails off, and when he speaks again, his voice is so quiet I have to strain to hear it. “I need you to stay. Please. Just until the storm clears. I’ll keep my distance. I won’t bother you. But I need you to stay.”
“Why?”
He doesn’t answer. Just stands there, watching me with an expression I can’t decipher.
“Please,” he says again. And the word sounds like it costs him everything.
I should say no. I should demand answers, demand my freedom, demand he tell me what the hell is going on.
But that pull is still there. That thread tugging me toward him, whispering things I don’t want to hear.
“I don’t have much choice, do I?” I sink back onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. “My car is gone. My phone is destroyed. I can’t exactly walk down the mountain in a blizzard.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “You can’t.”
“I’m going to bed,” he finally says. “I put extra blankets in your room. It gets cold at night.”
Then he’s gone, disappearing down the hallway, his bedroom door clicking shut behind him.
I sit on the couch for a long time, watching the flames dance, trying to make sense of any of this.
He apologized. He’s fixing my car. He made me breakfast and gave me extra blankets and cleaned the entire cabin while I slept.
But he also crushed my phone. Ripped off my car door. Carried me into this cabin against my will and told me I can’t leave.
None of it adds up. None of it makes sense.
And underneath all the confusion and anger and fear, that pull is still there. Still tugging. Still whispering.
I press my hand against my chest, like I can physically push it away.
