"Oh," I breathe, taking in the space for the first time.
It's like stepping into a rustic dream. The lamp's glow illuminates a cozy room with exposed log walls, a massive stone fireplace, and a small kitchen tucked into one corner. Everything feels handmade and loved.
"Wait by the fireplace," Darhg says, setting the lamp on a round kitchen table and shrugging out of his coat. "I'll get the fire going."
I watch, fascinated, as he moves to the neat stack of firewood set in a cast-iron log rack set next to the stone fireplace withthe kind of easy efficiency that speaks of long practice. He lays kindling down with careful motions, adds two split logs and a fuzzy-looking firestarter bundle, then strikes a match. The fire catches with a dry snap and crackle, and I find myself drawn closer to the promise of warmth.
"You've done this before," I observe, slipping off my wet shoes onto a tray by the door and padding closer in my stocking feet.
He glances up at me, and in the firelight, his amber eyes seem to glow. "My whole life."
There's something in his voice that makes me pause. It’s a note of… what? Nostalgia? Pain? Before I can analyze it, he's moving again, heading to a small digital panel by what looks like a back door.
"Generator," he explains briefly, flipping switches. A few seconds later, the house hums to life, and warm electric light fills the space.
I blink in the sudden brightness, taking in details I'd missed before. The kitchen is small but well appointed, with cast-iron pans hanging above a spotless stove. Comfortable furniture is arranged around the fireplace, all in well-worn leather. A short hallway leads deeper into the cabin, where I distinguish two doors.
And everywhere, the kind of homey touches that speak of a life lived here.
"Water's still off," he says, checking something on the panel. "House needs to warm up first. It's been winterized."
"That's fine," I assure him, hugging myself as the first real wave of heat from the fireplace reaches me. "This is perfect."
He turns to look at me, and I catch something flickering across his expression. Surprise, maybe?
"You don't have to pretend," he says carefully. "I know you're used to better than this."
The assumption stings more than it should. Everyone always thinks they know what I want, what I need, who I am. Even him.
"You don't know me as well as you think you do," I say, meeting his gaze directly. "This cabin is perfectly fine. I don't need luxury, Darhg. I never wanted it."
He holds my gaze for a long moment, and I see something shift in those amber depths. The faintest trace of a smile touches his lips, gone so fast I might have imagined it. But it's enough to set a hurricane spinning between my ribs.
"I need to check the propane tank," he says, his voice rougher than before. "For the generator."
And then he's gone, leaving me alone in the golden warmth of his sanctuary.
Because that's what this is, I realize as I explore the space on quiet feet. This isn't just a cabin. It's his home. His refuge. And he brought me here.
The heat kisses my shins through my jeans, finally chasing away the bone-deep chill from outside. I pad around the room in my stocking feet, taking in the cozy details. The braided rugis soft under my feet, clearly handmade. The crochet throw draped over the sofa is done in rich blues and greens, the kind of intricate work that takes months to complete. Everything here speaks of care, of time taken to make a space not just functional but comfortable.
But it's the mantle that draws me like a magnet.
Framed photos line the wooden shelf above the fireplace, and I study them with shameless curiosity. A gap-toothed ogre boy in a muddy soccer jersey, grinning at the camera with pure joy. A lanky teenager with Darhg's amber eyes and stubborn jaw, scowling at the photographer from behind too-long bangs, wearing a dark suit and a flower on his lapel in what I assume to be his prom outfit.
My heart does something complicated in my chest. Baby Darhg. Teenage Darhg. Both versions stir feelings inside me that I don’t want to feel, and yet I can’t take my eyes away.
There's a middle-aged ogre woman with laugh lines around her eyes and Darhg's strong jaw, wearing what looks like a graduation cap. His mother, maybe? And next to that, an older ogre woman in a flour-dusted apron, her expression stern but kind, silver hair pulled back in a neat bun.
His grandmother, I’m sure of it.
The front door opens, bringing a gust of cold air and the sound of stomping boots. I turn to find Darhg in the doorway, my bag in his hand and snowflakes melting in his dark hair. Hetakes off his boots and sets them neatly next to mine on the tray by the door.
"Bedroom's down the hall," he says, heading toward the short corridor. "End room."
I follow him, hyperaware of his presence in the narrow space. He pushes open a door, and warm light spills over a bedroom that makes my chest tight with longing. I hadn’t realized how tired I was until looking at a bed. It’s cozy and covered in a thick duvet in deep-red plaid.
"Where's your room?" I ask, looking back down the hallway and seeing only one other door, which is clearly a bathroom, confirming what I already suspected.
