She nods, then watches me for a moment in a way that makes my heartrate speed up. It's not scrutiny this time. It's curiosity mixed with something softer and far more dangerous.
"You haven’t always lived up here alone,” she says.
“What makes you say that?” I ask.
“Well, you had to learn your art somewhere. So, you must have at least gone to school somewhere.”
Her voice isn't pushy. She sounds like she honestly wants to understand. But I can’t forget that she’s a reporter.
“Still looking for a story?” I ask quietly.
She shakes her head. “This is off the record. I just want to know you.”
I consider brushing off the question, but she's earned more than that. She was careful in the workshop. She listened. She treated my work like it mattered, not like a story to exploit. And she's here because she took a risk. A stupid one, but a brave one. I can’t help but admire that.
"I went to school in Nashville, and I lived there for several years," I finally say. "I hated feeling crowded. People made too many assumptions about what I should be doing. What kind ofart I should be making. How fast. How much. They wanted to turn my craft into a factory line. A moneymaking machine."
She sits down slowly, letting the blanket pool around her. "So, you chose to move to the mountains?"
"I chose to find a place where I could have total creative control."
"And solitude?"
My lips quirk into a smile. "That too."
She studies me again, but this time her eyes hold a softness that unsettles me. "You don't seem unhappy here."
"I'm not."
"But you seem… lonely."
The word hits harder than it should. Not because she's wrong, but because I've spent years pretending otherwise.
Lonelyis the reason her presence unsettles me.Lonelyis the reason her smile caught me off guard.Lonelyis the reason I reacted so fast when she almost touched the hot metal.
And lonely is the reason it feels too easy to imagine what it would be like if she stayed.
I clear my throat, needing a distraction. "I go to town on occasion. I like Mercury Ridge. Everyone minds their own business there.”
“It does seem like a friendly town,” she says.
My stomach growls, alerting me to the fact that it’s been a while since I’ve eaten. “We should eat dinner. I can make soup."
She smiles. "I won't argue with that."
I heat the pot on the stove—chicken and vegetables, nothing fancy—while she curls her legs onto the couch. The moment feels strangely domestic. Familiar in a way it shouldn't be.
When I bring her a bowl and sit across from her with mine, she eats quietly, glancing up at me every few minutes as though she's trying to read between the lines.
I know the moment she notices the problem.
Her gaze flicks toward the sleeping arrangements.
"One bed," she says softly. "I didn't realize."
"I'll take the couch," I answer before she can say anything else.
She hesitates. "You don't have to do that."
