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Chapter two
Jax
The storm hasn’t let up. Snow still presses against the windows in steady waves, but inside the cabin, everything holds. From the vintage radio, Bing Crosby croons about white Christmases. I twisted the dial before sunrise, needing something to fill the silence. The wreath on the kitchen window catches the morning light, releasing pine scent into the warm air.
My mother made cinnamon oats every Christmas morning. She'd hum along to carols, and the house would smell like comfort and safety. I haven't made them since the accident. Haven't celebrated at all. Just marked days until winter passed.
But this morning, with Claire asleep on my couch, I pull out the cinnamon and maple syrup. Find myself humming along to Bing.
The woodstove clicks softly as it heats. The walls stay warm. I move slowly, careful not to wake her as I stir the oats, the scent of cinnamon rising with the steam. She’s still on my couch, curled beneath the quilt I tucked around her like she belongs there. And maybe that’s the part I can’t stop noticing.
I don’t usually have people here. I built this place to be quiet. A cabin meant for solitude, not soft laughter and a woman asleep on my couch in an oversized flannel. The moment I carried her through that door, everything shifted. I felt it in the weight of her in my arms when I pulled her from the snow, trusting me without knowing my name.
She stirs as I finish breakfast. I don’t look at her right away. I focus on the pan, on the way the oatmeal thickens, on the dull rhythm of the wooden spoon against cast iron. I hear her shift on the cushions, the gentle rustle of flannel brushing skin. Then her voice, still thick with sleep.
“That smells incredible.”
I glance over my shoulder. Her legs dangle from the edge of the couch, bare skin disappearing under the hem of my shirt. I should look away. My body won’t let me. Every inch of her draws me in. She catches me looking and smiles, wide and easy, like being here isn’t strange at all. Like I didn’t carry her out of a snowbank less than twelve hours ago.
“Oats,” I say. “They’re hot, needed something warm.”
She moves closer, arms crossed over her chest, pretending not to notice the way my eyes roam over her thick thighs. She does notice, though. Her cheeks flush, and she turns to the table, pretending to inspect the chipped ceramic bowl like it’s worth her attention. I set it down in front of her and step back, needing the space.
She takes a bite and hums low in her throat. “Oh my God. You made this from scratch?”
“It’s just oats.”
She shakes her head. “No. It’s comfort in a bowl.”
I shouldn’t be this close to her. I should be checking the chimney, chopping wood, doing anything but watching the way her lips curve around the edge of a spoon. The heat of our nearness stirs my cock, sending my mind to places I thought I’dshut down for good. She’s bright in a way this place hasn’t seen in years. Yet, she’s not loud or artificial, but alive. She talks as if she’s been waiting to be heard and doesn’t want to waste the chance. I listen. I can’t seem to stop.
“I don’t usually spend the night in stranger’s houses,” she says. “But this… this doesn’t feel like a stranger’s place.”
I nod, not sure what to do with that. “I built it.”
“You built this cabin?” she asks, wide-eyed.
"Built it when I started guiding for Granitehart Ridge Retreat." I pour the remaining oats into a bowl and sit across from her at the table. The retreat closes for winter, but I stay up here year-round, like most of the guides. Trail maintenance, emergency rescues when city people get in over their heads.
She fits in that chair as if she's been sitting there for years instead of minutes.
Five years of guiding, and I've pulled hypothermic hikers from snowbanks, talked panicked clients down from cliff faces. Carried twisted ankles back to civilization. I've seen people at their most vulnerable, most grateful. Never once considered bringing any of them here.
This cabin is my sanctuary. The place I retreat to when I'm done taking care of everyone else. Built it with my own hands, chose every board, every corner where the morning light hits just right. It's mine in ways nothing else has ever been.
"I've never brought anyone here before." The words scrape rough from my throat.
She looks up from her bowl, dark eyes going soft. She understands the weight of what I just gave her. I carved this place out for my own peace, and I'm sharing it like it's the most natural thing in the world.
