Like photosynthesis.
And being creepy as hell in the dark.
“You good?” Marco’s voice cuts through my mental spiral.
I turn and paste on my best everything-is-fine smile. “Totally good. Just enjoying the view.”
He studies me with those dark eyes that see way too much. “The view of trees you’re terrified of?”
“I’m not terrified.” The lie tastes sour. “I’m just. Cautious. There’s a difference.”
“Uh huh.” He doesn’t push. Just sets the satphone on the table where I can see it. Then his bear spray. Then his pack with all the emergency supplies clearly visible.
Oh.
He’s staging them so I can see them.
So I know we’re safe.
My throat goes tight. Because that’s what he does. He notices things. He adjusts. He creates structure around the mess that is me without making me feel like I’m broken.
“Dinner in twenty,” he says. “I’ll get the kitchen going.”
“The kitchen?” I follow him to what I assumed was just a rustic cabin kitchen but is actually a full billionaire-grade setup. Induction cooktop. Convection oven built into the cabinetry. A ventilation hood that probably cost more than my entire apartment.
“Where do you get the power for all this?” I ask.
“Solar plus batteries, with a propane generator backup.” He’s already pulling out ingredients from the industrial-grade refrigerator. “The propane tank’s around back. Holds enough fuel for six months of generator use if the solar goes down in winter.”
Because of course Marco Fiore owns a wilderness cabin with a full solar setup and battery bank.
I can’t help but smile. “So we’re definitely glamping.”
“We’re teaching wilderness respect with backupinfrastructure.” He touches the induction burner and it powers up instantly, the battery bank clearly holding plenty of charge from today’s sun. “There’s a difference.”
I glance at the dim overhead lights.
When your idea of camping involves solar arrays, battery banks, propane backup systems, and appliances that cost more than a car.
Peak billionaire energy.
Not complaining though.
“Actually, it sounds perfect,” I tell him.
Because it does.
Because anything that doesn’t involve me having a complete meltdown in front of his daughter sounds perfect right now.
Ben appears from down the hallway holding Frederick. “Can I help make dinner?”
“Always,piccola.” Marco lifts her onto a stool at the marble-topped island that somehow exists in this “rustic” cabin. “You’re my sous chef.”
I watch them work together. The induction burner heats water instantly, running smooth and silent off the solar batteries, while Marco explains the science to Ben in terms a five-year-old can grasp.
As his hands guide hers while she tears basil, she wears her serious concentration face. He explains every step like she’s a real chef in training and not a kindergartner with a stuffed snail.
When you realize you’re watching your future and it’s both perfect and terrifying.
