Those same hands built the cabin we’re in. My chest tightens at how comforting it is, knowing he’s capable of creating something so solid. Somehow, it feels like he built it for me to be safe in.
I wonder how many people he's kept alive on these mountains. I wonder if any of them felt this pull toward a man who makes survival look effortless. Something tells me the answer is no. He said he’s never brought anyone here. I doubt he’s let anyone close enough to see him like this, so unguarded, moving through his own space with quiet confidence.
When he reaches up to adjust something on the shelf, his flannel pulls tight across his back. Muscle shifts beneath the fabric. He's built like someone who carries people to safety, who can haul a full pack up a mountain trail without breaking sweat.
"I used to think cabins like this were romantic," I say. My voice is soft. "You know. Snowstorms, fires, no distractions."
He turns, one eyebrow raised. "And now?"
"Now I think they're honest." I stand, crossing to where he's working. Close enough to smell the soap on his skin. "You can't hide in a place like this. Everything's stripped down to what actually matters."
His eyes track my movement. I'm not particularly short, but next to him I feel delicate. When he helped me out of my wet clothes, his spare flannel hung on me like a dress. The sleeves fell past my fingertips. On anyone else, it would just be oversized. For me, wearing his clothes, it felt different.
Claimed.
"You always this philosophical about shelter?" he asks. There's amusement in his tone, something warmer than his usual responses.
"Only when I'm in a mountain cabin and drinking coffee stronger than anything I've had in the city." I step closer, close enough that I have to crane my neck to maintain eye contact. "Only when said mountain man looks at me like he's never seen anything quite like me before."
His breath catches. I see his pupils dilate, watch his hands flex at his sides as if he's fighting the urge to reach for me.
"That's because I haven't seen anything like you," he says, voice low and rough.
The admission hangs between us, honest and raw. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes. We're both thinking about the same thing. How easy it would be to close this space between us. How right it would feel to let him catch me again if I tripped, this time on purpose.
“I feel like I should say something about…” I pause, momentarily uncertain.About the kiss, I wish I’d said. He’s silent. I take a seat at the kitchen table, unsure of how he’ll respond.
“You don’t have to.” He doesn’t turn around as he says it. Just keeps slicing something with the kind of focus that makes my throat feel tight. My heart beats faster as I try to find the right words. It’s not that I don’t know what to say, it’s that I know what it will cost me to say it.
“I want to.” I shift slightly in the chair, curling my feet beneath me as I watch his back stiffen almost imperceptibly. “About the kiss, I mean.”
He doesn’t respond right away, but I can see the way his hand pauses, how his shoulders don’t lower like they usually do when he exhales. The knife stills on the cutting board, and for a moment, the only sound is the soft tick of the woodstove behind him.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he says, the words careful, like each one was chosen and measured before he let it go. “Not for staying. Not for that.”
I study the rim of the sugar bowl on the table, tracing a tiny chip with my fingertip. “It wasn’t nothing.”
That gets him to turn. He looks at me fully now, eyes unreadable but too intense to ignore. The way he watches me makes the rest of the world fall out of focus. I see the weight in his expression, and I imagine he’s thinking about the part of himself that doesn’t know what to do with want that isn’t temporary.
“I know it wasn’t,” he says. He doesn’t try to pretend or brush it off. He lets the words hang there between us, quiet and real.
My throat tightens. I look down before I say something that might ruin the fragile thread we’re both holding. I’m a lifestyle blogger. I’ve built an entire career around capturing moments that look perfect, but none of those curated snapshots ever felt messy and quiet and raw like this. I’m not used to being in a place where I can’t script the ending.
I’m here in his town to do exactly that; script the ending. I’m supposed to be shooting quaint, small-town blog content that I’ll edit into something impossiblyhometown Christmas.But even as good as I am at that, it’s nothing like what I feel developing between us.
Outside, the snow has slowed. The world beyond the glass looks clean and untouched, like nothing bad could ever reach this high up the mountain. There’s a trail now, faint and shallow, probably from the early ranger patrols. I let my eyes follow the tracks down the slope, then glance back at him.
“How long do you think before the roads are clear?”
“Tomorrow, maybe. Could be longer.”
The relief I expect doesn’t come. Instead, something cold flickers just beneath my ribs. I nod and take another sip of coffee, swallowing more than just heat. I can already feel the time slipping away, like something beautiful that isn’t meant to last.
I carry my coffee to the window and stand there for a moment, fingers curled around the mug, heat seeping into my skin. Outside, the world looks deceptively simple. The snow and trees and sky are all washed in pale light. There’s no noise here, no notifications, or the need to smile unless you mean it.
I press my forehead lightly to the cold glass and watch the wind play with the top branches of the pines. The snow looks peaceful, but it’s a lie. Underneath all that white is cold and weight and something you don’t see coming until you’re buried in it. I know the feeling.
Somewhere in the distance, a crow calls once and then falls silent again. Behind me, I hear him moving, steady and unhurried, the way he seems to move when he’s trying not to show what he’s feeling.
