"Gone for the night." He doesn't sugarcoat it. "Maybe longer, depending on when it stops and when the plow comes through."
I swallow, surprised by the flicker of relief that follows. Not fear. Not frustration. Relief. It occurs to me that Iwantto stay with Rowan a while. "Okay."
He studies me, like he's checking for fear or regret, then nods. His expression gentles slightly. "You'll be safe here."
The certainty in his voice settles something in my chest, something I didn't realize was still unsettled.
I return to the chair while he finishes the wreath, the fire crackling and the cabin wrapped in quiet again. But it's not an uncomfortable silence. It's the kind that feels full rather than empty, charged with awareness rather than awkwardness.
After a moment, I say, "Thank you. For letting me stay."
"I wasn't going to send you back out there," he says, like it's obvious, like there was never any other option.
"I know." I smile into my mug. "Still. Thank you."
He turns back to his work, but I catch the way his shoulders ease just a little, the way the tension I hadn't even noticed seems to drain away.
The cabin feels smaller in the best way.Cozy and intimate. Rowan looks at me then, and something in his gaze softens.
"I’ll find you something comfortable to sleep in tonight and I’ll let you have the bed," he says.
My heart skips, but I keep my voice steady. "All right."
A feeling of hope sparks within me. Maybe this detour to his cabin will turn into somethingmore… something I didn't plan for but don't want to avoid.
The fire pops, the snow piles higher against the windows, and Rowan returns to his workbench while I sit by the stove, warm and watching him.
And what a beautiful sight it is…
Chapter 4
Rowan
ItellmyselfI'mfocused on the work.
The wreath on the table needs finishing—berries wired in with careful precision, ribbon measured and tied just right, each element balanced—but my attention keeps drifting. Every few seconds, I'm aware of her presence behind me. The quiet way she breathes, slower now that she's warm. The soft shift of the blanket when she moves in the chair by the stove. The occasional small sound she makes, barely audible, as she settles in.
She fits too easily in my space.
That's the problem.
I've spent years arranging my life so nothing unexpected gets close enough to matter. The mountain is predictable.The seasons are predictable, their rhythms steady and known. People aren't. People leave, or they want things I can't give, or they try to change what works.
But Merry watches me work like she's not in a hurry, like she doesn't feel trapped by the storm or the narrow walls of my cabin. When I finally glance back at her, she's leaning her chin in her hand, eyes warm and curious behind those slightly fogged glasses.
"You always this quiet?" she asks.
"Most of the time."
She smiles. "I like it. Most feel compelled to talk just to fill the silence. You only speak when you have something worth saying."
That shouldn't land the way it does, settling heavy and warm in my chest.
I set the wreath aside and reach for another bundle of pine, my hands moving on autopilot. "You don't know me well enough to say that."
"Maybe," she says. Her voice is thoughtful, not argumentative. "But I know you let a stranger into your cabin during a snowstorm. That counts for something."
I snort softly. "I’m a grouchy recluse, but my mother tried her best to teach me manners. And leaving people to freeze outside in the snow would not meet with her approval.”
