I stand in the middle of the bathroom, damp hands clutching the hem that hits me mid-thigh. It swallows me whole. The sleeves hang past my fingertips, forcing me to roll the cuffs three times just to find my hands. My wet clothes are piled in the corner, a sad heap of denim and cotton that failed to protect me from the mountain.
I catch my reflection in the small, frameless mirror above the sink. My hair is a damp, tangled mess, dark strands plastered to my pale neck. My eyes look wide. Frantic. A face that hasn't seen the sun in weeks staring back at me.
"Get it together, Avery," I whisper. The sound is harsh in the small tiled space.
I’m in a stranger’s house. A very large, very scary stranger who carried me through a blizzard like I weighed nothing more thana bag of groceries. Fear should be clawing at my throat. I should be looking for a weapon or a back door.
But the heat seeping from the vents in the floor feels too good. And the scent of him clinging to this shirt—deep pine and sharp musk—is calming me down when I should be panicked.
I take a deep breath, inhaling him, and regret it immediately. My heart hammers against my ribs.
I can’t stay in the bathroom forever.
I unlock the door. The click of the latch sounds like a gunshot in the quiet cabin. I step out into the hallway, the floorboards smooth and solid beneath my bare feet.
The main room is massive. Where my cabin is a rotting box of drafts and misery, this place is a fortress. Thick, polished logs interlock perfectly to seal out the howling wind. A massive stone fireplace dominates the far wall, a fire roaring inside it, cracking and popping with a violence that warms the air instantly.
And then there’s him.
Oliver stands in the kitchen area, his back to me. He’s filling a kettle at the sink. Without the heavy canvas jacket, he’s even bigger than I thought. Shoulders broad enough to block out the window in front of him. A black thermal shirt clings to every ridge of muscle in his back, stretching taut as he moves.
He turns as if he felt my eyes on him.
Freezes.
I stop breathing.
His gaze drops to my bare legs, then slowly travels up the oversized plaid shirt, lingering on the buttons I fumbled with,before locking onto my face. His eyes are green—not the bright, friendly green of spring grass, but the dark, mossy shade of a forest where light rarely reaches.
Silence stretches, heavy and thick. I fight the urge to tug the hem of the shirt down.
"Better," he rumbles. The low vibration hits the soles of my feet.
"It’s... warm." My voice sounds thin, pathetic compared to his. "Thank you."
He turns back to the stove, setting the kettle down with a clatter. "Sit. Couch. Keep the weight off that ankle."
"I can walk fine."
"You were limping before you hit the floor," he says without looking at me. "Sit down, Avery."
I limp—trying to hide it, failing miserably—over to the leather couch facing the fire. It’s huge, distressed leather, dark brown and soft. I sink into the corner, pulling my knees up to my chest and wrapping the flannel around my legs.
The cabin is meticulously organized. Precise. Every tool by the fireplace hangs straight. No knick-knacks, no photos, no fluff. Just books on a shelf, a radio on the mantle, and a sleek, dangerous-looking knife resting on the side table next to a stack of maps.
"You said you knew me before I opened my mouth," I say, my voice gaining strength as I watch his massive back. "How long have you been watching my cabin, Oliver?"
He walks over, a steaming mug in each hand. He moves with a quiet grace that defies his size. No heavy footsteps. Just silent, predatory efficiency.
He sets a mug on the coffee table in front of me. "I know everyone who moves onto the ridge. Especially the ones who don't belong here."
I reach for the mug, welcoming the heat against my palms. "I belong here. It was left to me—an inheritance," I say, welcoming the heat against my palms while his heavy, moss-green eyes track the movement of my throat.
He straightens up, crossing his arms over that massive chest. Biceps bulge against the black thermal fabric. "Inheriting this place and surviving the winter are two different things. You have a toolkit from the 1950s and boots made for a mall, not a mountain."
My cheeks heat up. "That toolkit is vintage. It’s high quality."
"It’s rust and nostalgia," he counters flatly. "And you were trying to hammer a support beam with a wrench."
