Chapter 3 – Demi
The bed dominates the space, its frame made of dark, heavy wood that looks hand-carved, the quilt folded neatly across the foot worn soft from years of use. A single window looks out onto the darkening forest, snow still falling in slow, lazy spirals that catch the last blue light of evening. The walls are bare except for a single shelf holding a few books, their spines cracked and faded.
It's spare, functional, a space that reveals more about Joseph in its simplicity than anything he's said out loud.
I close the door softly behind me, more out of habit than necessity, and set my bag on the floor beside the dresser. The wood is cool under my fingertips as I steady myself, taking a breath that feels bigger than it should.
It's just clothes. Just changing into something comfortable.
Except it doesn't feel simple. Not here. Not with Joseph on the other side of that door, moving around the cabin in that quiet, deliberate way of his, his presence filling every corner even when he's not in the room.
I pull my sweater over my head, the fabric catching slightly on my hips before sliding free. The air is cooler against my skin than I expected, raising goosebumps along my arms and shoulders.
I fold the sweater carefully and set it aside, then reach for the thermal shirt I packed—a soft, well-worn cotton that's been washed so many times it feels like a second skin. It slides over my head easily, the fabric stretching gently across my chest and settling around my waist and hips with a comforting weight. The hem hits just below my waistband, and I tug it down slightly,feeling the way it drapes over my soft stomach without clinging too tight.
I step out of my jeans next, the denim stiff from the cold and the long drive, and pull on a pair of fleece-lined leggings that hug my thighs and calves without constricting. They're warm, practical, and forgiving in all the right places. The fabric is thick enough to feel substantial but soft enough to move with me, and I appreciate the way they settle comfortably over my curves.
Over that, I add an oversized hoodie that falls to mid-thigh and drapes loosely over my curves. The sleeves are long enough to cover my hands if I want them to, and I tug them down now, wrapping my arms around myself as the fabric settles.
Thick socks. Slippers. My hair pulled back into a loose ponytail that immediately starts to come undone, blonde strands already escaping to frame my face.
I catch my reflection in the small mirror above the dresser and pause.
My cheeks are still flushed from the cold and the warmth of dinner, and my eyes look brighter than they have in weeks. There's no makeup left and my hair is a mess, but I don't look tired anymore. I look… present.
When I step back into the main room, Joseph is crouched by the fire again, adjusting a log with the poker. The flames flare briefly, sending light dancing across his broad shoulders and the line of his back.
The flannel shirt he's wearing pulls taut across his shoulder blades as he moves, and I can see the strength in his arms, the way his body has been shaped by years of physical work. He doesn't look up right away, but I see the slight shift in hisposture, the way his hand stills for just a second before he finishes what he's doing.
I didn't dress to be noticed, I dressed to be comfortable, but the fact that he's aware of me, that he registers my presence even when he's not looking directly at me, makes my chest flutter.
I move toward the couch, my slippers making soft shuffling sounds against the worn wood floor. The boards creak slightly under my weight, and I'm hyperaware of every sound I make, every movement.
I sink into the worn leather cushions that are still warm from where I sat before, the material creaking softly as it gives beneath me. The fire crackles, and the scent of woodsmoke mingles with the lingering aromas of lemon and garlic from the meal we shared.
It's cozy in a way that feels almost too intimate, like the cabin is wrapping itself around us, holding us here in this pocket of warmth and light while the world outside grows darker and colder.
Joseph stands, brushing his hands off on his jeans, and moves to sit on the opposite end of the couch.
I notice the way he settles himself, one arm draped along the back of the couch, his body angled slightly toward the fire, but his attention is on me.
I pull my knees up, tucking my feet under me, and let myself sink deeper into the cushions. The warmth from the fire seeps into my skin, chasing away the last traces of cold that had settled into my bones during the drive.
I feel my body relax in increments—shoulders dropping, jaw unclenching, the tension I didn't realize I was carrying slowlymelting away. My hands emerge from the sleeves of my hoodie to rest on my knees, and I notice how the firelight catches on my skin, turning it slightly golden.
For a few minutes, we don't speak. We just sit, watching the fire, the silence between us comfortable in a way I didn't expect.
The wind picks up outside, rattling the windows, making the glass shiver in its frame. But inside it's warm and still, and I can hear every small sound.
"You didn't have to help with dinner," Joseph says eventually, his voice low and a little rough, like he's not used to making conversation. Like the words have to travel a long distance before they reach the air.
"I wanted to."
"Still. You're paying to be here, you shouldn't have to work."
I smile at that, turning my head to look at him more fully. "I still would have needed to if I were here alone."
He glances at me, one eyebrow raised, and I catch the faintest hint of amusement in his expression, a softening around his eyes, the corner of his mouth lifting almost imperceptibly. "Fair enough."
