“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
I turned, leaning against the counter, meeting her gaze fully for the first time. “Oh, you’d be surprised.”
She didn’t look away. For a heartbeat, the storm and the fire and the quiet all folded in around us — the first fragile stillness of the night.
And somewhere under it, the unmistakable knowledge: neither of us would leave soon.
The kitchen wasn’t much — half a counter, a sink, and a single cast-iron skillet that looked older than either of us. But it was enough. I found rhythm in small things: olive oil, salt, the scrape of a knife against a cutting board.
She moved around me like static, restless and too bright for the space. Setting the table, rearranging it twice, humming under her breath. I wasn’t sure she even realized she was doing it.
When I reached for the spices, she was suddenly there, opening the wrong cabinet, laughing softly when she found cereal instead.
“I thought I’d help,” she said.
“You’re doing an excellent job of that.”
Her eyes cut toward me — narrowed, amused. “Are you always this polite, or is it just the storm talking?”
“I’m out of practice,” I admitted. “It’s been a while since I’ve had to share space.”
“Same.”
Something about the word “same” made me pause. I glanced up, and she was already looking away, pretending to fuss with a stack of mismatched plates. The sweatshirt hung off one shoulder again, bare skin catching the glow of the fire.
The knife slipped a fraction. I steadied it. Kept chopping.
We didn’t talk much after that, and somehow it was easier that way. The cabin filled with the smell of garlic and rosemary. Outside, the snow kept falling, thick and sure, sealing us in.
When I finally handed her a plate, she looked almost suspicious. “This smells like an actual meal.”
“It is.”
“You really are full of surprises, Mr. Reed.”
I sat opposite her, elbows on the table, and watched her take thefirst bite. She made a sound low in her throat — approval or relief, maybe both — and I had to look away.
“You said you came here for solitude,” I said. “What does that mean, exactly?”
Her fork paused midair. “You’re awfully nosy for someone who was just invited to dinner out of pity.”
“I wasn’t invited. I offered.”
“Same difference.”
She tried to sound flippant, but her voice cracked around the edges. I didn’t press. I just nodded, taking a slow bite of my own, letting her have the silence. People told you more when you didn’t ask.
After a while, she spoke again, quieter. “It means I needed to stop pretending I was fine.”
That landed somewhere under my ribs. Too familiar. Too close.
I set my fork down. “Then maybe we’re both in the right place.”
Her eyes lifted to mine, sharp and uncertain, as if she wasn’t sure whether I was teasing her or telling the truth. I didn’t clarify.
The fire popped. The wind howled. Between us, the plates were emptying, the room warmer than it should’ve been.
When she stood to clear the table, I found myself saying her name without thinking. “Colette.”
