That’s dangerous thinking. That’s the kind of thinking that got me into trouble with Stephen—seeing what I wanted to see instead of what was real. Projecting feelings onto situations that didn’t deserve them.
“Storm’s still bad,” Finn says, following my gaze. “Radio says another twenty-four hours at least before it starts breaking up.”
“Guess you’re stuck with me a little longer.”
“Guess so.”
He doesn’t sound upset about it. My heart tries to skip at that, and I force it back into rhythm.Don’t, I tell myself firmly.Don’t start hoping.
We fallinto a rhythm without discussing it.
Finn checks the generator, the water systems, the dozen other things that keep this place running in a crisis. I take over the kitchen, exploring his surprisingly well-stocked pantry and refrigerator. Eggs, bacon, bread that’s only a day old. The man lives like a hermit but eats better than most city bachelors I know.
“Sourdough French toast okay?” I call out as he passes through on his way to check something outside.
He pauses, surprise flickering across his features. “You don’t have to cook.”
“I want to. It’s the least I can do, considering I ate half your groceries yesterday for a dinner you didn’t even ask for.”
“Dinner was good.”
Three words. But he says them like they matter, like he’s been thinking about it, and warmth spreads through me that has nothing to do with the fire crackling in the hearth.
“Then let me make breakfast. Consider it rent.”
He nods once and disappears out the back door, letting in a blast of frigid air and a swirl of snowflakes before it shuts behind him.
I get to work.
There’s something meditative about cooking in an unfamiliar kitchen. I have to search for everything—the mixing bowls, the vanilla extract, the right pan for the job—and each discovery feels like learning a new language. Finn’s kitchen is organized with military precision, everything in its logical place, but there are personal touches too. A worn wooden spoon that looks older than both of us. A cast iron skillet seasoned by decades of use. A small herb garden on the windowsill, struggling but alive despite the winter.
He tends things. Nurtures them. Even though he lives alone, even though no one would know if he let the herbs die or used a metal spoon instead of the wooden one his grandmother probably gave him.
I catch myself mid-thought, hand frozen on the whisk. I’m doing it again—constructing a narrative, filling in the blanks with the version of him I want to see. Maybe the spoon was on sale. Maybe he just likes fresh herbs. Not everything has to mean something.
I return to whisking with more force than the eggs require.
I’m whisking eggs and cinnamon when he comes back inside, stamping snow from his boots. His cheeks are ruddy from the cold, and there’s ice crystallizing in his beard, and?—
I yank my attention back to the bowl. It doesn’t matter what he looks like. Handsome men have never been the problem. Stephen was handsome. Boyd was handsome. Handsome is just packaging, and I’ve learned the hard way that the contents rarely match.
“Woodpile’s good,” he reports, shrugging off his jacket. “Should last us through tomorrow if we’re careful.”
“Need any help?”
He pauses, clearly surprised by the offer. “You want to haul firewood?”
“I want to be useful. And I’m stronger than I look.”
Those gray eyes travel over me—not lecherously, but assessingly, like he’s recalculating something. Whatever conclusion he reaches, he nods.
“After breakfast. I’ll show you how the wood stove works.”
The French toast is a hit.
Finn doesn’t say much—he never says much—but he eats three pieces and actually makes a small sound of appreciation on the first bite that sends heat rushing to my cheeks. We eat at his handcrafted dining table while the storm rages outside, and the domesticity of it catches me off guard. It feels too easy. Too comfortable. Like we’ve been doing this for years instead of hours.
The thought should be sweet. Instead, it sets off alarm bells. Easy isn’t real. Comfortable is a trap. I know better than to trust feelings that arrive this fast.
