She whispers, “That was…”
“I know.”
I know. I shouldn’t want this or even want her to stay, but the thought of her leaving now already hurts more than it should. I don’t know how to say it without making it sound like more than it should be. I feel an ache pressing against my ribs, the kind that only shows up when you realize you want something you’re not sure you’re allowed to have. She doesn't know it, but she’s already in the walls I built to keep everything out. I want her to stay. I want her to want to.
Wanting something doesn't make it safe. Relationships, in my world, have never been anything but dangerous.
She looks up at me. “You okay?”
I almost laugh, but not because it’s funny. I don’t have a name for what I feel. Wanting her. Wanting to keep her safe. Wanting her to stay.
“No,” I say quietly. “But I will be.”
I step back before I do something reckless like kissing her again, and forgetting that this is temporary, that she has a life waiting for her somewhere far from here.
“I have some things to check outside,” I say, and gather my coat and boots. It’s a lie, but I need the bite of the air in my lungs.
She watches me like she can see right through that sentence, but she doesn’t argue. She just nods and nestles into a quilt on the couch.
The snow’s lighter now, drifting in soft flurries that cling to my beard, my sleeves. I split wood until my shoulders burn. Clear the roof. Check the chimney again, though it doesn’t need it. Anything to work the wanting out of my bones. Anything to remind myself she’s only here because the storm says so.
Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. The town bells will ring then, that hour-long tradition marking the holiday. Five years I've spent this day alone, splitting wood to avoid memories. This year, there's a woman in my cabin who makes me want to hear those bells. Want to believe in something again.
By the time I come back in, the sky’s gone dark, the snow starting up again in slow, silent sheets. She’s waiting by the fire, wrapped in my old flannel as if it always belonged to her.
I’m quiet at dinner, and she reads by the fireplace after the dishes are washed. I don’t trust myself to say more than a few words. The want inside feels like a spring ready to snap.
Later, I lay the extra quilt on the couch, and she knows what I mean: she’ll take the bed. I’ll take the couch. She smiles at me like she’s forgiven me for every mile of cold this place was meant to hold. And when the bed frame creaks, meaning she’s slipping beneath my covers, I stand by the hearth too long, imagining the shape of her there, warm and soft in a place I swore would stay empty.
The fire settles. The storm still howls. She’s here, soft and breathing in my bed, and the cabin no longer feels empty. I settle onto the couch and close my eyes, listening to the soft hiss of the fireplace. I wonder if she knows what she’s started, or how the hell I’m supposed to let her go.
Chapter three
Claire
The light in the cabin is different in the morning. Thin, cold, soft at the edges, like the morning is trying not to wake us. Christmas music drifts from the other room, an acoustic guitar with bells underneath. I've curated perfect holiday aesthetics for years. None felt like this. Like Christmas is something I breathe instead of perform.
Snow still presses against the windows, but it’s quieter than yesterday, more of a hush than a howl. I lie still beneath the quilt. My body is warm from nestling under the quilts, my skin still holding the memory of the places he touched me yesterday when we kissed. His bed smells like woodsmoke and something clean, like cedar or soap, something that makes my chest tighten for reasons I don’t want to examine too closely.
I hear him before I see him. The low scrape of a chair leg, the faint clatter of a spoon against a ceramic bowl. There’s no talking, just the slow, deliberate kind of movement that belongs to someone who doesn’t rush through anything, not even breakfast. His presence is a steady warmth in the next room,even without a word. I pull the quilt up higher for a moment and breathe into the fabric. It still smells like him.
When I sit up, the air outside the quilt hits my skin in a rush, cool and pine-scented and laced with something sweet like apples and cinnamon. I tug the quilt around myself as I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My toes curl against the wide-plank floors that radiate faint warmth from the fire. I head to the bathroom, then into the kitchen.
He’s at the stove, back to me, his shoulders broad and solid beneath his shirt. His hair is mussed from sleep, and his profile is all quiet intensity, like nothing in the world could shake him… except maybe me.
He doesn’t look over right away, but I know he’s aware I’m awake. There’s a shift in the air, a slight change in the way he moves, as if the room itself has registered my presence. I step closer, wrapping the quilt tighter around my shoulders, and watch the way his hand stirs whatever’s simmering on the stovetop. The smell is stronger now, apple slices softening in a pan, maple syrup warming slowly beside them. It smells like home, even though I’ve never had a home like this.
He finally glances my way, not startled, just steady. “Morning,” he says, voice rough like gravel warmed by the sun.
“Morning.” My voice comes out quieter than I expect, still sleep-thick and brittle around the edges. I clear my throat, but it doesn’t help.
He nods toward the table and lifts a mug, setting it down in front of an empty chair. I cross the room and sit, the mug warm from the fire and smooth beneath my hands. The mug is chipped in one spot and full of the kind of dark roast coffee that promises no frills and no forgiveness.
I take a sip, bracing for the bite, and close my eyes as the heat hits my tongue. It’s strong, but perfect. He doesn’t ask how I take it. Somehow, he just knows.
The silence stretches between us, not awkward but full, like there’s too much to say and no good place to start. He moves around the kitchen in that quiet, grounded way of his, like he’s never been uncertain in his life. I sit there in his chair wearing one of his shirts, feeling as if I’ve wandered into a dream I forgot I wanted.
There's something about watching him work that makes my stomach flip. I wonder about all the things he’s done as a wilderness guide, all the things his hands have taught people, building fires in wet conditions, or reading storm patterns that could’ve killed them. His hands seem to know survival in ways most people never will.
