"It's two nights," he says finally. "You booked through the fifteenth."
Oh.
Right.
"Two nights," I repeat, my voice perhaps a touch less confident than it was five seconds ago.
He stares at me like he's trying to figure out if I'm serious. Then, slowly, he nods.
"Fine. But I'm staying on my side."
"That's the plan."
"And we're putting pillows between us."
"Whatever makes you comfortable."
He looks like he wants to argue, but instead he just shakes his head and moves back into the main room. I hear him muttering something under his breath.
I set my bag down by the bed, my hands still shaking slightly.
I press my palms against my thighs, forcing myself to breathe. This is fine. This is completely fine.
I came here to be alone, to reset, to stop feeling like I'm performing femininity for an audience that will never applaud. And instead, I'm sharing a cabin with a man who looks like he was carved out of the wilderness itself.
I hear him moving around in the living room, the creak of floorboards, the soft thud of wood being added to the fire. When I step back out, he's crouched by the fireplace, his back to me, and I let myself look.
His shoulders strain against his flannel. His jeans sit low on his hips, and when he shifts his weight, I catch the flex of muscle beneath denim. His hands move with efficiency, adjusting the logs, and I find myself wondering what those hands would feel like.
I clear my throat. He glances back, and I swear I see the faintest hint of color on his cheeks before he stands and brushes ash off his palms.
"You hungry?" he asks.
"I—yeah. I didn't eat much on the drive."
"I'll make something."
He moves into the kitchen area without waiting for a response, and I'm left standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure what to do with myself. Eventually, I sit on the couch, tucking my legs under me and trying not to stare at the way his back shifts as he moves.
When he glances at me over his shoulder, his eyes catching mine for just a second before he looks away, I feel the heat of it all the way down to my toes.
I came here to escape Valentine's Day, but I'm starting to think the universe had other plans.
Chapter 2 – Joseph
I crouch in front of the hearth, adjusting logs that don't really need adjusting. The flames are already steady, throwing heat into the small space, but my hands need something to do that isn't noticing her.
Demi.
Even her name sounds soft.
She's moving behind me, unpacking, I think. I hear the quiet rustle of fabric, the soft thud of something being set down, the zipper of her bag sliding open with that metallic whisper that shouldn't register but does.
Each sound arrives like a tap on my shoulder, pulling my attention away from the fire, from the wood, from anything useful.
Her boots sit by the door now, lined up neatly next to mine. Her coat is draped over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, dark blue against the worn wood, and I can see where snowmelt has darkened the shoulders. Her presence has already rearranged the space in ways I can't quite name.
I stand, brushing ash from my hands, and force myself to focus on practical things. The woodpile outside needs restocking before nightfall. The path to the shed could use another shovel pass before the snow sets in harder.
