Until I saw someone sitting on the split-log bench behind cabin four.
Carson.
Of course.
Because fate had my location settings enabled.
He was hunched slightly forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the woods like it was the only thing holding his thoughts together. His button-up was gone; he’d changed into a soft black thermal that stretched across his chest and arms in ways my mind absolutely did not need cataloged.
But the real problem was his expression.
Quiet.
Thoughtful.
Tender in a way that hit too close.
I slowed to a walk.
He turned.
And the way his face shifted when he saw me, like he was relieved, made my stomach flip.
“Morning,” he said.
I swallowed. “Morning.”
He studied me a little too carefully. “You okay?”
“Yep. Totally. Fantastic.” I gestured vaguely at the trail. “Just… running.”
“From what?”
I froze.
He had the audacity to look calm.
I folded my arms. “Excuse me?”
“Sienna,” he said softly, “you only run like that when you’re spiraling.”
“I don’t spiral.”
“You are currently spiraling.”
I pointed at him. “Stop reading me.”
“You’re very readable.”
“That is rude.”
“It’s true.”
I groaned. “Carson.”
He stood and stepped toward me slowly, unthreatening, but with purpose.
Carson folded his arms across his chest. “We need to talk.”
