The truck slows, and Davin turns onto a narrower road cut through the trees, barely more than a driveway. The headlights illuminate a cabin ahead, wood-sided and solid, smoke curling from the chimney into the dark sky.
He parks close to the front door and kills the engine. The sudden silence is profound, broken only by the tick of cooling metal and the soft whisper of snow against the windshield. The world outside the truck feels muffled, distant, like we’ve crossed into a place where normal rules don’t apply.
He opens his door, and cold air rushes in, sharp and immediate. He’s around to my side before I can reach for the handle. He opens my door and offers his hand, palm up, waiting.
I take it. His palm is warm, callused, steady. He helps me down, and when my boots hit the snow-covered ground, he doesn’t let go right away. His hand stays around mine, solid and grounding. For a moment, we’re motionless. The flakes catch in his dark hair and on his shoulders, melting where they touch his skin. The intensity in his gaze makes my pulse kick, and I realize he’s studying me: not assessing, not judging, but memorizing. Like he’s been waiting for this moment and wants to be sure it’s real.
His thumb brushes across my knuckles once, a touch so light it could be accidental but isn’t. Then he releases me and reaches into the truck bed for a bag I didn’t notice. “Let’s get you inside.”
I follow him to the cabin door, and when he opens it, warmth and the smell of woodsmoke pour out. The interior glows with firelight. The cabin has wood floors, a stone fireplace with embers still orange and alive, and furniture that looks handmade and well-loved.
It looks like a home. It looks like safety.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I allow myself to believe that stopping, resting, letting go… maybe I’m allowed to do these things without everything falling apart.
Chapter two
Davin
I’ve been watching her for three weeks.
Not in a way that would make her uncomfortable. Not lurking or following. Just noticing. The way a man notices when something shifts in his world, and suddenly everything else goes quiet.
It started at the bookstore. I’d gone in for coffee, and she was there talking to Mika about her new shop. Her voice held that particular kind of exhaustion that comes from carrying too much alone for too long. She laughed when Mika suggested asking for help, but the sound was brittle and defensive.
I stood at the counter with my coffee cooling in my hand and watched her gesture at the empty storefront across the square. Watched her explain her vision with hands that moved too fast. Watched her shoulders curve inward when she mentioned the furniture she couldn’t move alone.
And a certainty that had been dormant since the fire inside me woke up and said:her.
Not a question. Not a maybe. Just recognition, immediate and absolute.
I found reasons after that. Walking past her shop with lumber for job sites. Stopping at the Waffle Den when her car was parked outside. I watched her struggle with boxes too heavy, her back arching under the weight. Every time, the urge to step in became a physical ache in my gut. But a man doesn’t just walk up to a woman and announce he’s decided she’s his. Not in a way that feels safe.
So I waited for the right moment. And when Evelyn mentioned the auction, I knew I’d found it.
Now she’s in my truck, and the satisfaction of having her here is so profound it’s almost painful.
The drive up the mountain requires focus. The snow is falling harder now, fat flakes that catch in the headlights and make the world beyond the beams disappear. The chains on my tires bite into the packed snow with a rhythmic crunch that vibrates through the steering wheel.
Beside me, Tilly shifts in her seat. Her scent fills the cab. It’s clean and warm with an undertone of lavender soap.
“You really heard me talking to Mika?” she asks.
“I did.”
“And you entered the auction just because of that?”
I consider how much truth to give her. “I heard you needed help. Figured I could provide it.”
“That’s not the whole story.”
Smart. Of course she is. I glance at her briefly. “No. It’s not.”
She waits, and the silence stretches between us. She’s deciding whether to push.
“I’ve seen you working,” I say finally. “Watched you carry more than you should. It didn’t sit right.”
“So this is... what? Pity?”
