"Nice porch."
"Thanks. It creaks in three places. Very atmospheric."
"I could fix that." The offer escaped before I could think better of it. "The creaking. If you wanted. I'm good with wood."
Her eyebrows rose slightly. "You fix porches?"
"I fix most things."Except crying children. Except myself."It's a skill."
She smiled, it was soft and genuine, almost reaching her eyes. "I might actually take you up on that."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was full. Charged. Heavy with something I couldn't quite name but desperately wanted to understand.
"Goodnight, Cole. Thank you for the ride."
"Goodnight, Emma."
She went inside. The lock clicked softly into place. I stood there longer than necessary, the mountain air doing absolutely nothing to calm the buzzing energy under my skin.
Driving home, Sarah asleep in the back, the realization hit me with the quiet, undeniable force of truth.
This wasn't just intrigue anymore. It wasn't admiration for a kind teacher.
The way my heart had hammered when she appeared in that hallway. The awe I'd felt watching her heal a wound I was powerless to touch. The way that charged silence on her porch had felt like standing at the edge of something vast and terrifying and wonderful.
I wanted to know what put that shadow of sorrow in her eyes. What made her laugh. What she dreamed about in that cozy little cabin.
The truck's headlights cut through the dark mountain road, illuminating trees and shadows and the winding path home. Somewhere behind me, a woman with honey-colored hair was probably getting ready for bed, completely unaware that she'd just upended everything I thought I knew about myself.
Tomorrow, I decided, I'd find a reason to see her again. And the day after that. And the day after that.
4.Emma
An overly protective mountain man has been leaving little gifts on my porch for the last week.
It started the Tuesday after Sarah's birthday party, three days after I'd talked his niece out of a bathroom stall and watched something shift in his blue eyes. I'd nearly stepped on the first one: a mason jar of wild blackberries and a smooth river stone, sitting on my porch like they'd always belonged there.
No note. No explanation. But I knew exactly who had left them.
I'm a second-grade teacher in a small mountain town. I grade spelling tests, referee playground disputes, and convince seven-year-olds that reading is actually fun. My life is small, quiet, carefully contained within the safe walls I've built around myself. I don't get mysterious gifts from mountain men.
Except, apparently, I do now.
The day after that, a jar of honey with a note. Three words in blocky, careful handwriting:
From the hive. Thank you
I spent an embarrassing amount of time getting that sticky note off the lid without tearing it. Fifteen minutes, if we're being honest. Then I tucked it into my mirror frame like a teenager saving a concert ticket from her first crush.
Very professional behavior. Extremely mature. Definitely not the actions of a woman losing her grip.
Friday brought a carved sparrow, pale wood polished smooth, feathers suggested by delicate grooves that must have taken hours to create. The level of detail stole my breath completely. Had he made this himself? The thought of him in his quiet cabin, knife in hand, brow furrowed in concentration as he carved something beautiful just for me, did dangerous things to my heart. Things I wasn't prepared to examine too closely.
By Saturday morning, I was waiting like a dog by the door. I made coffee. I tried to read my book, but reread the same paragraph four times without absorbing a single word. I finally gave up entirely and just sat there, watching the morning light creep across my floor.
Last week, our class had a Mother's Day craft event where every student was supposed to bring their mom. But one of my students didn't have a mom to bring, and showed up holding her uncle's hand.
He was so tall he barely fit through the door. He looked like he'd rather fight a bear than face a room full of paper hearts. I remember thinking he seemed carved from the mountain itself, completely and utterly out of place among the alphabet posters and tiny chairs and cheerful chaos.
