Sierra stares out the window. “He’s intense.”
“That’s his job,” I say.
Silence fills the cab.
We pull off onto a smaller track, headlights sweeping over tall grass and fence posts. My cabin sits near the edge of the property where the land starts to feel wild again. It’s tucked back, half-hidden by a line of trees, the kind of place you don’t find unless you know where you’re going.
Sierra’s breath catches when she sees it.
It’s not fancy.
It’s mine.
I park close, angled for a fast departure if I need it, and kill the engine.
Sierra doesn’t move right away.
“You good?” I ask.
Her voice comes out thin. “This is where you live?”
“Yeah.”
She blinks. “Alone?”
“Yeah.”
Something about that makes her swallow hard. Maybe because it makes the forced proximity real now. Maybe because she realizes there’s no one else to buffer this.
I get out and come around to her door. Open it. Offer a hand again.
She takes it. Her fingers linger a second too long, then she pulls back like she caught herself.
I unlock the cabin, push the door open, and step inside first.
Lights on. Quick scan. Windows. Corners. Bathroom door. Everything is where it should be.
I let her in.
She stops just inside and stares.
The room is simple. Bed against the wall, quilt thrown over it. Couch opposite. A fireplace for cozy winters. A small kitchen area with a sink, a couple of cabinets, a coffee maker, and a fridge that hums like it’s tired. There’s a worn rug by the couch. A chair in the corner with a jacket slung over it. A shotgun rack near the door.
It’s not homey.
It’s functional.
Sierra’s gaze lands on the shotgun. Then the bed. Then the couch.
Then she looks at me.
“Okay,” she whispers, like she’s trying to convince herself.
I move to the kitchen, grab two bottles of water, and hand her one.
“Drink,” I tell her.
She does without arguing, which tells me she’s past the point of fight.
