This cabin isn’t where I grew up. I built it when I came back, when I needed something that belonged to me. Something nobody could take, nobody could ruin.
She steps in slow, like she’s expecting the walls to bite.
Her eyes flick around, taking inventory. Couch. Bed. Small kitchen. Windows. Exits.
She’s calculating.
That tells me more than her lie ever did.
“Bathroom’s there,” I say, nodding. “You hungry?”
She looks at me like I asked her a question in a language she doesn’t speak.
Then she blinks. “What?”
“Food,” I repeat, like it’s not a big deal. “You eat?”
Her throat works. “Yeah. I mean. Yes.”
Her voice is still thin. Still stretched.
Instinct roars.
Protect her.
I hate the feeling because it makes me reckless. I’ve spent years training the reckless out of myself. In the military, reckless gets people killed. At home, reckless gets you attached.
And attachment gets you abandoned.
My mind flashes, uninvited, to my mother’s back disappearing through a doorway while my father’s anger shook the walls. She left to save herself. I understood that part later.
What I never understood was why she didn’t take me.
I was sixteen when I started fixing cars and bikes for cash and favors just to eat. When I realized engines don’t leave you if you keep them running. Machines don’t punish you for needing them.
People do.
I joined the military because it was a straight line out. Came back with things in my head I don’t talk about. Built my cabinwith my own hands because I needed a place that belonged to me, away from ghosts, away from noise.
And now a woman from Wolves territory isin my home.
I don’t like it, but I don’t want to stop it.
I start cooking.
Cast iron skillet. Heat. Oil. Salt.
The sizzle fills the cabin, loud in the quiet, and I watch her shoulders loosen a fraction at the normal sound of something simple happening.
Food. Heat. Home.
It’s almost stupid how powerful those things are.
“Smells good,” she says, voice cautious, like she’s testing if she’s allowed to speak.
“It’ll feed you,” I answer.
She shrugs out of my jacket, then tugs off the oversized hoodie underneath. A plain T-shirt clings to her skin, and when she moves, the fabric pulls across her collarbone.
