Something inside me is strung too tight. If he touches me again, I might forget why there are a million red flags here and why I’m supposed to keep my distance in a strange man’s cabin.
He peels off his gloves and coat, revealing strong forearms under a flannel shirt rolled to the elbows. There’s a faint scar that runs along the back of one hand, pale against his skin. He moves to the hearth without a word and adds another log to the flames.
I tell myself I should be focused on getting warm, not on how his hands look. My fingers fumble with my scarf as a distraction. It’s damp and starting to itch. I tug it off and rub my hands together for warmth, glancing around. The stove is squat and square, like something from a prairie novel, but somehow it makes the place feel steady. A Christmas tree stands in a corner.Instead of ornaments, it’s wrapped in a string of understated red and gold baubles. The pine scent cuts through woodsmoke, sharp and real. I can't remember the last time Christmas felt like anything but performance requiring three takes and a ring light.
The tree is uncomplicated. Simple. Somehow, it feels safe.
Just like he does. A pile of chopped wood sits stacked neatly beside the tree, and a narrow hallway leads to what I assume is the bedroom and bathroom. No decorations, no clutter, but everything feels lived in and worn smooth by years of use. It’s the kind of simple beauty you can’t fake, no matter how good you are with filters and editing.
He crouches near the stove, fills a kettle with water from a pitcher, and sets it over the flame. He’s still silent. Still no name or introduction.
I clear my throat. “Thanks for… you know. The whole rescuing me thing.”
A flicker of something crosses his face, surprise, maybe, or amusement. His voice, when it comes, is rough and quiet. “The roads got bad fast. It’s a wonder you made it as far as you did.” He doesn’t say it to scare me. He says it like he’s made it his job to keep me safe, and I didn’t even have to ask.
I grin. “You can talk.”
He stands and faces me fully for the first time. He’s gorgeous. My stomach flutters with sudden butterflies. His eyes are pale gray, maybe blue, difficult to tell in the firelight, and set deep beneath heavy brows. His beard is neatly trimmed but thick, framing a mouth that looks like it could be soft if he smiled. He doesn’t smile.
“I talk,” he says, flat. “Just not much.”
There’s no apology in it. No shame. It’s a simple truth. He doesn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable with silence, which makes me very aware of all the ways I try to fill it.
I nod slowly, letting the silence settle between us like snow. It’s not unfriendly, exactly. Just quiet. Like the space around him only makes sense when it’s still.
“I’m Claire,” I offer. “Claire Andrews. I was supposed to be checking into a cabin in town, but I guess that’s not happening tonight.”
He studies me for a moment, then walks to the narrow cabinet and pulls out a mug, dropping in a tea bag. The kettle whistles softly. He pours the hot water, sets the mug on the table near me, and finally says, “Jax.”
That’s all. No last name. No follow-up. Just Jax.
The mug warms my palms. I sip, grateful for the heat. I look up at him, still standing over me like he’s not sure whether I’m going to break something or burst into flames.
“Thank you, Jax.”
His eyes flick over my face, then lower to my still-wet jeans. “You need dry clothes.”
I raise a brow. “Unless you keep a stash of women’s leggings in that cabinet, I think I’m out of luck.”
He turns, opens a drawer, and tosses me a flannel shirt. It’s soft, faded, and too large even in the folded shape. “Bathroom’s through there.”
The bathroom is small, paneled in wood like the rest of the cabin. The mirror is slightly spiderwebbed with age, and the light is dim, but I catch sight of myself anyway. My hair is windblown, cheeks flushed, lips pink from the cold. I peel off my wet clothes and tug on the flannel. It falls past mid-thigh, the sleeves almost to my fingertips. I roll them up and take a deep breath. It smells like cedar and smoke and something unmistakably him.
When I step back into the main room, Jax is kneeling by the fire, tending the logs. He doesn’t look up. Just says, “You’ll take the bed. I’ll sleep here.”
I pause. The firelight paints the muscles in his back with gold. His shirt pulls slightly where it hugs his shoulders. I open my mouth, about to protest, then close it. Instead, I walk quietly to the couch against the far wall and sit down, the flannel brushing my knees.
The wind keens outside the cabin walls. Inside, the world has narrowed. This room. This man. A stranger, and yet somehow, the safest place I’ve been in years.
He stays there by the fire a long time, not watching me, but never far. He hasn’t said more than twenty words since he found me, but somehow, I’ve never felt more seen.
I know I should go to the bedroom, but I’m too tired. I wonder, as my eyelids begin to drift, what it means to be rescued by someone who might not let you go.
The firelight flickers across his shoulders, the slow curve of his back. He moves with the kind of quiet strength that makes me ache in ways I’m not ready to name. My breath slows, but my pulse stays restless. A part of me wants to stay awake, just to watch him longer.
Epilogue & Series Blurbs
Amber's story doesn't end with meadow balm. Click here to read her bonus epilogue now.
