I shift slightly, turning toward him more fully, my knee brushing against the cushion between us. "Besides, I liked it. Cooking with you. It felt… normal. Good normal."
He doesn't respond right away, but I see his face shift into something softer, less guarded. The wall he keeps up seems to lower just a fraction, and I catch a glimpse of the man underneath all that careful control.
He looks back at the fire, and I watch the way the light plays across his features, highlighting the strong line of his jaw, the shadow of his beard, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes that suggest he smiles more than he lets on, even if it's only when he's alone.
"I don't get a lot of company out here," he admits quietly, and there's something vulnerable in the admission, like he's offering me a piece of himself he doesn't usually share.
"By choice?"
"Mostly."
I nod, letting that settle between us.
I understand the impulse to retreat, to protect yourself by keeping people at a distance. I've done it too, in my own way. Not by moving to the mountains, but by lowering my expectations, by convincing myself that being alone is easier than being disappointed. By telling myself that if I don't expect much, I can't be hurt when people leave.
"I get that," I say softly. "Sometimes it's easier to just… not."
He looks at me then, and I feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing. His eyes are darker, almost bronze, and I can see the questions in them even if he doesn't voice them.
"Why are you here?" he asks finally.
The question catches me off guard, even though it shouldn't. It's a fair question. I'm alone on Valentine's Day, staying in a remote cabin in the middle of nowhere. Of course he's curious.
I take a breath, letting it out slowly, watching the way the firelight flickers across the walls. "Honestly? I needed a break.From… everything. The city. Work. The whole Valentine's Day thing."
"You don't like Valentine's Day?"
"I don't like what it represents. Or what it's supposed to represent, anyway." I pull the sleeves of my hoodie over my hands, wrapping my arms around my knees. The fabric is soft against my palms. "It's supposed to be about love and connection, but mostly it just feels like a reminder of what I don't have. Like the world is celebrating something I keep reaching for and missing."
He's quiet for a moment, and I wonder if I've said too much, if I've made this awkward, if he thinks I'm pathetic for admitting that I'm alone and tired of it.
But then he nods, slow and deliberate, his jaw working slightly. "Yeah. I know that feeling."
I glance at him, and he's staring into the fire, his expression unreadable but his shoulders tight with tension.
"You've been alone out here for twelve years," I say carefully. "That's a long time."
He doesn't answer right away. I almost take the question back, worried I've pushed too far. But then he speaks, his voice quieter, rougher. "Loneliness is easier than the alternative."
"What's the alternative?"
"Letting someone in. Giving them the chance to leave."
I understand that fear more than I want to admit. The fear of being chosen temporarily, of being someone's stepping stone instead of their destination. The fear of opening yourself upcompletely only to watch them walk away because you weren't quite what they were looking for.
"I've been there," I say softly. "The leaving part. Not the one doing the leaving, the one getting left."
He looks at me again, and this time there's something raw in his expression, something that makes my throat tighten and my eyes sting.
"What happened?" he asks, and the gentleness in his voice almost undoes me.
I shrug, trying to keep my voice light even though the subject isn't. "The usual. I dated men who liked me fine but didn't love me enough to stay. Men who treated me like I was temporary. Like I was the fun distraction before they found someone they actually wanted to keep." I pause, swallowing hard. "I was always the woman they dated while they figured themselves out. Never the one they chose when they were ready."
"That's not—" He stops himself, shaking his head, his hand curling into a fist on his knee. "That's their loss."
The words are simple, but the conviction behind them makes my chest ache. I smile, even though it feels a little wobbly. "Thanks. But it still sucks, you know? Feeling like you're always second choice. Like you're not quite enough. Like if you were just a little bit different—a little thinner, a little quieter, a little less—maybe then someone would actually want to keep you."
"You're enough."
