We walk side by side, close but not touching. The narrow space makes me even more aware of his physical presence—the breadth of his shoulders, the sound of his breathing, the occasional brush of his coat against mine.
As we reach the end of the walkway and he pushes open the door to the cabin, I catch him looking at me with an expression that makes my pulse quicken.
"After you," he says gruffly, holding the door.
I step past him into the warmth of his home, aware of crossing some threshold.
And despite all the reasons to be cautious, I can't bring myself to regret it.
Chapter 3 – Silas
The cabin feels different with her in it.
For twenty years, it's been my sanctuary—orderly, quiet, mine alone. Now her presence fills the space, alters the air currents, disrupts patterns I've spent decades perfecting. I should resent it more than I do.
"You can hang your coat there," I say, gesturing to the hooks by the door. The storm has intensified, snow driving against the windows in thick waves. We made it inside just in time.
She slips off her coat and hangs it next to my weathered canvas jacket. The contrast is almost comical: her city sophistication against my deliberate rusticity.
The cabin isn't much by most standards—open living area with a kitchen along one wall, fireplace opposite, simple furniture built for function rather than style. But it's well-crafted, everything made by hand, either mine or local artisans I've bartered with over the years.
I'd banked the fire before heading out to check the lines, and now coax it back to full strength, adding a split log from the stack. The flames catch quickly, casting flickering light across the plank floors.
Sage moves toward the heat instinctively, holding her hands out. The firelight catches her profile—straight nose, full lips, hair falling loose around her shoulders.
"Are you hungry?" I ask, more abruptly than intended.
"I could eat," she says, turning to face me. "Can I help?"
"I've got it." I move to the kitchen, needing distance, needing routine. "Do you have any food allergies?"
"No. I eat everything." A small smile plays at her lips. "Occupational requirement."
I nod, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator—local cheese, eggs from my own chickens, vegetables I preserve each fall. Simple food, but good. The kind that doesn't need pretension or garnishes to satisfy.
She watches from her place by the fire, and I feel her gaze like a physical touch as I begin working. Muscle memory takes over—knife moving effortlessly through vegetables, pan heating on the stove. There's comfort in the familiar rhythm, even with her observing.
"Executive chef, you said?" I ask, not looking up.
"Yes." She moves closer, leaning against the counter's edge. Close enough that I catch her scent—something subtle and warm, not perfume but her own skin warmed by the fire. "Though as I mentioned, I'm taking a break."
"Why?" The question is more direct than I intended.
She hesitates. "Needed perspective. Space to remember why I started cooking in the first place."
I glance up, recognizing something in her tone. Fair enough. I have my own stories locked away.
"What about you?" she asks, changing the subject. "Were you always a syrup maker?"
"No," I answer, focusing on the julienne of a carrot. "I came to it later."
"And before that?"
I consider deflecting again, but something about the quiet intensity of her gaze makes me reconsider. "I was a chef. In another life."
That gets her attention. She straightens slightly, eyes widening. "Really? Where?"
"New York. Chicago. A few other places." I shrug, downplaying two decades of sixty-hour weeks, Michelin stars, and magazine covers. "It was a long time ago."
