“And you didn’t.”
“No.”
A beat passed.
Then she said, quieter, “I couldn’t breathe in there.”
I exhaled.
I couldn’t blame her.
“Come on,” I said, and this time I did reach out—just long enough to guide her toward the cabin with a gentle hand at the small of her back.
She stiffened at first.
Then, slowly, she leaned into it like she’d been waiting for someone to steady her.
That touch—so small, so innocent—hit me like a punch to the ribs.
I pulled my hand away before I did something stupid.
Inside, the cabin was warm enough to take the bite off. The lights were low, soft. Shadows stretched across the worn hardwood floor. The woodstove crackled. The whole place felt like a cozy welcome-home feeling.
Rylie stood in the middle of the room and looked around like she couldn’t decide if she should be comforted or unsettled.
“It’s… nice,” she said.
“It’s not fancy.”
“I didn’t say fancy.” She looked at me. “I said nice, and cozy.”
I shrugged, suddenly aware of how close we were standing. Of how the silence made every breath loud.
I forced myself into motion. “I’ll get you blankets.”
Rylie followed me to the closet without thinking, then stopped short when the hallway narrowed and we were too close for comfort.
Or… too close for control.
I grabbed two extra blankets, tossed one to her.
She caught it automatically, then stared at it like she didn’t know what to do with softness.
I recognized that look.
It was the look of someone who’d been in survival mode too long.
“Sit,” I said, nodding toward the couch.
She hesitated.
I didn’t push. I just waited.
Then Rylie slowly lowered herself onto the couch, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders like armor.
I crouched in front of the woodstove and adjusted the log, keeping my back to her so she didn’t feel watched.
But I was watching anyway.
