She looks comfortable. That's what unsettles me most.
She's curled into the corner of the couch with her feet tucked under her, one hand resting on her knee, the other disappearing into the sleeve of my shirt. Her hair has come loose from the ponytail, blonde strands falling around her face and catching the firelight in a way that makes them look almost gold.
She fits here.
I don't know what to do with that.
I've spent twelve years learning how to live alone, how to make peace with solitude, how to convince myself that this life is enough.
I've gotten good at it. Good enough that most days I don't even feel the absence anymore. I just exist, moving through routines, splitting wood, cooking meals for one, watching the seasons change through windows I don't have to share.
And then she walked through my door, and suddenly the cabin feels different. Smaller. Warmer. Like it's been holding its breath all these years, waiting for someone to fill the spaces I didn't realize were empty.
The fire crackles, and I watch a log shift, sending sparks up into the chimney. Snow is still falling, I can hear it in the way the wind moves, the soft hiss against glass and wood.
We're sealed in here, the two of us, and there's nowhere to go, no reason to leave, nothing to do but sit in this thick, warm silence and pretend my pulse isn't racing every time she shifts her weight.
"This is nice," Demi says softly, breaking the quiet. Her voice is low, almost drowsy, and I glance at her to find her staring into the fire, her expression peaceful in a way that makes my throat tight.
"What is?"
"This. Just… sitting. Not having to talk or do anything. Just being."
I nod, even though she's not looking at me. I understand what she means.
There's a comfort in the silence, in the lack of expectation. Most people fill every gap with noise, with chatter, with anything to avoid sitting still with themselves. But Demi doesn't seem to need that.
"You don't get a lot of quiet in the city, I imagine," I say.
She laughs softly, the sound warm and a little sad. "No. Not like this. There's always noise. Traffic, sirens, people, construction."
"Do you like it? The city?"
She's quiet for a moment, thinking. "I used to. Or I thought I did. But lately it just feels… exhausting. Like I'm constantly performing. Constantly trying to be the right version of myself for whatever situation I'm in."
"And here?"
"Here I don't have to be anything." She turns her head to look at me, and the firelight catches in her eyes, making them seem brighter, warmer. "I can just be me. Messy hair, no makeup, wearing someone else's shirt. And it's okay."
I want to tell her that she's more than okay. That she's beautiful like this, soft and unguarded, wrapped in my clothes and looking at me like I'm not a problem to solve or a project to fix.
But the words stick in my throat unformed, and I just nod instead.
"You should be able to be yourself wherever you are," I say finally.
"Yeah. Well. That's not always how it works."
She looks back at the fire, and I see something sad and familiar flicker across her face, like she's remembering all the times she wasn't allowed to just be.
I hate that.
I hate that she's had to feel that way, and I hate even more that I recognize it. Because I've done the same thing, in my own way. Not by performing, but by retreating. By deciding that if I stayed here, alone, I'd never have to compromise or explain or defend the life I chose.
But sitting here with her, I'm starting to wonder if I chose solitude or if I just convinced myself it was a choice because it felt safer than the alternative.
"Can I ask you something?" Demi's voice pulls me back, quiet but direct.
"Sure."
