Ten minutes later, I’m bundled up in my warmest coat, a hat pulled low over my ears, with a thermos of Maisie’s homemade noodle soup tucked into my backpack. The night has turned crisp and clear, stars punching holes in the black canvas above. My breath clouds in front of me as I pick my way up the path, using my phone flashlight to navigate the uneven terrain.
What am I doing? This question repeats with each step, a rhythm to match my accelerating heartbeat. Why am I trudging up a mountain in the dark to bring soup to a man who deliberately hurt my feelings? A man who’s supposed to be my fake boyfriend, not someone who can actually wound me?
Because it wasn’t fake on the ice today. That conversation, that connection—it was real. And that’s what scares me. That’s what scared him, too, clearly.
The path grows steeper, and I’m grateful for my regular running routine as my legs power me upward. The exercise helps channel my churning emotions—anger, confusion, and something deeper, more terrifying that I’m not ready to name.
Maisie’s directions prove spot on. The lightning-struck pine looms against the night sky like a jagged tooth, and the path branches exactly as she described. I follow it through a grove of trees that open into a small clearing. And there, nestled against the mountainside as if it grew there organically, is the cabin.
And it’s a proper one, with a stone foundation and sturdy log walls. Light spills from the windows, golden against the darkness, and smoke curls from the chimney, carrying the scent of burning pine. Through one window, I can see flames dancing in a fireplace, casting long shadows.
For a moment, I drink in the scene. It’s like something from a Christmas card—the quintessential mountain retreat, isolated and perfect under the winter stars. The air up here is different, too—sharper, cleaner, like each breath could cut through the fog of confusion in my mind.
I approach, slow and uncertain. What will I say when I see him? Am I here to continue our fight? To demand an explanation? To offer an olive branch?
Before I can decide, before I can even reach the porch to knock, the door swings open. Brooks stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the warm light behind him. He’s changed into sweatpants and a thermal henley, his hair mussed like he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly. The expression on his face—surprise, vulnerability, something like wonder—stops me in my tracks.
“You came all the way up here.” The words are half statement, half question. His eyes drop to my backpack. “And you brought a thermos.”
“It’s soup. For you.”
“Me?” The disbelief in his voice breaks something open inside me. It’s as if the simple act of climbing a mountain to bring him soup is so far beyond his expectations that he can’t quite process it. Like no one has ever done something this basic, this caring for him before.
“Maisie made it.” My voice is smaller than intended. “Homemade noodles. She says it’s your favorite.”
We stand caught in a moment that feels suspended between all our history and something new, something undefined. Snow falls, delicate flakes drifting around us.
“Come in,” Brooks says finally, steppingback. “It’s freezing out here.”
The cabin is even more charming inside—one large room with wooden floors and exposed beams, dominated by a stone fireplace where logs crackle and pop. A kitchenette occupies one corner, a worn leather couch and coffee table the center, and a couple doors, probably leading to a bedroom and bathroom. It smells of pine and wood-smoke and something distinctly Brooks—that clean, slightly spicy scent that I’ve grown accustomed to this past week and a half.
I shrug off my backpack, pulling out the thermos. “Should probably heat this up again,” I say, for lack of anything better.
Brooks takes it from me, our fingers brushing in a way that sends electricity shooting up my arm. “Thank you,” he says, and I know he’s not just talking about the soup. “You didn’t have to come all this way.”
“I know.” I unwrap my scarf, suddenly too warm. “I wanted to.”
The simplicity of the admission hangs between us, weighted with implications.
Brooks moves to the kitchenette, finding a pot for the soup. I take off my coat, laying it over the back of a chair, then heading to the refrigerator to put in the cheese sticks I brought. Since Maisie said there wasn’t food here, I brought my snack specialty: Cheez-Its with melted string cheese, a two-minute makeshift nacho recipe that’s not bad.
Then I drift toward the fireplace. The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable—more contemplative, like we’re both trying to find our footing on this new terrain.
“I’m sorry,” Brooks says, his back still to me as he pours the soup. “For what I said at the lake. Bringing up that slumber party... it was a dick move.”
“Why did you do it?” I turn to face him.I know the answer, but I want to hear him say it.
He’s quiet for so long I think he might not answer. Then he sighs, setting the pot on the small stove. “Because I was scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of this.” He gestures between us. “Of whatever’s happening here. It doesn’t feel fake anymore.”
The confession hangs in the air, raw and honest in a way Brooks Kingston rarely is.
“It scares me too.” My voice is just above a whisper. “But pushing me away, hurting me on purpose... that’s not the answer.”
Brooks crosses the room until he’s standing in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him. “I know,” he says softly. “I’m not good at this, Syd. At letting people in. At being vulnerable.”
