Demi moves closer, peering into the pan, and I'm suddenly very aware of how small this kitchen is. Her shoulder brushes mine, and I feel the warmth of her even through fabric. "What's that?"
"Lemon butter glaze."
"Fancy."
"It's three ingredients."
"Still fancy." She nudges my shoulder with hers, and the contact is light, casual, but it lands like a brand. "You're secretly a gourmet, aren't you?"
"I'm practical. This is what I had on hand."
"Right, practical." She's grinning now, and I realize she's teasing me.
I pour the glaze over the chicken, turning the pieces to coat them evenly, then start plating. Rice goes on first, herbed with thyme and a little butter, then the chicken, then the roasted vegetables Demi finished chopping. I drizzle everything with the remaining glaze and step back to assess.
It looks good. Better than good.
Demi leans over the counter, her eyes widening. "Okay. That's definitely not 'just chicken.'"
"It's dinner."
"You're impossible."
"And you're stubborn."
"Thank you."
She says it like a compliment, and I almost smile.
We sit at the small table, plates in front of us, the fire crackling softly in the background. The light flickers across the walls, warm and golden, and for a moment the cabin feels less like a place I'm stuck and more like a place I've chosen.
Demi takes her first bite and makes a low and appreciative sound that does absolutely nothing helpful to my self-control.
"This is so good," she says, her eyes closing briefly. "Seriously. Where did you learn to cook like this?"
"Books. Trial and error. Necessity."
"Well, necessity did you a favor." She takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Do you cook like this every night?"
"More or less."
"That's impressive."
I shrug, uncomfortable with the praise. "It's just food."
"Joseph." She sets her fork down, looking at me with something that might be exasperation. "You're allowed to accept a compliment, you know."
"I'm not good at that."
"Clearly."
We eat in silence for a few minutes, and I find myself watching her again. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear. The way her lips curve slightly when she's thinking. The way she seems completely at ease, even though we're strangers sharing a cabin that neither of us planned to share.
"So," she says eventually, breaking the quiet. "How long have you lived out here?"
"Twelve years."
"Alone the whole time?"
