My jaw tightens. “No. This is me recognizing someone who’s been told she has to do everything herself and deciding she doesn’t have to anymore.”
Her breath catches. The sound travels through me, settling low in my spine.
“You don’t know me,” she says, but her voice has lost its edge.
“I know enough.” I take the next curve slowly. “I know you’re smart enough to plan a business, but too stubborn to ask for help when you need it. I know you work until you’re running on fumes. I know you deserve better than what you’ve been giving yourself.”
“That’s a lot of assumptions.”
“They’re not assumptions.” I pull onto my driveway. “They’re observations.”
The cabin comes into view, and my pulse kicks up. I’ve never brought a woman here before. This space has been mine alone since I left the firehouse. But having her here feels right in a way that bypasses logic entirely.
I park close to the door and kill the engine. Snow falls in the headlights’ dying glow.
“I need to be clear about something,” she says. “I’m not here for a romantic weekend. I’m here because I need furniture moved. That’s all.”
“I heard you the first time.”
“And that’s okay with you?”
I turn to face her fully. She’s watching me with those sharp, tired eyes, waiting for disappointment or argument.
“Tilly.” I keep my voice low, steady. “You’re here because you need help, and I can provide it. What happens beyond that is your choice. All of it. Every step. You set the pace. You decide what this is.”
Her lips part slightly. Her hands unclench from her thighs. Her body responds to the promise of safety, tension bleeding from her shoulders in increments.
“Okay,” she whispers.
I get out and move around to her side. The cold bites at my face and hands. I open her door and offer my hand, and when she takes it, the contact sends heat straight to my throat.
Her palm is smaller than mine, cold from the drive, and when I help her down, she stumbles slightly. My free hand settles on her waist. She’s soft and curved, where I’m hard angles, and she fits against my side like she was designed for exactly this position. Her head barely reaches my shoulder.
She looks up at me, snowflakes catching in her dark hair. Her breath is visible in the cold air between us, quick and shallow. My thumb brushes across her knuckles. Her eyes widen.
I make myself release her hand and reach for the bag in the truck bed.
“Let’s get you inside.”
The cabin’s warmth hits us as soon as I open the door. I built this place myself over two years. It’s not large, just the main room with the kitchen along one wall, the bedroom and bathroom beyond, but it’s solid. Safe. Mine.
She takes it in slowly. The stone fireplace I salvaged from a demolished church. The furniture I built from trees I felled and milled myself.
“You built all this?” she asks, moving toward the dining table, her fingers trailing across the smooth wood surface.
“Most of it. Table, chairs, bed frame. Cabinets.” I move to the fireplace and add wood to the embers. “Keeps me busy.”
“It’s beautiful.”
The word does something to my throat.
I straighten and turn to find her watching me.
“You’re cold,” I say. “Sit by the fire. I’ll make coffee.”
She moves to the couch without argument. She’s tired enough to accept care, even if she doesn’t know how to ask for it.
I fill the kettle and set it on the stove, measuring coffee into the French press. Behind me, I hear her sigh, a sound of relief so profound it makes my throat ache.
