He’s standing at the edge of the clearing where the dense pines give way to my sad excuse for a yard. He looks less like a man and more like a piece of the mountain that broke off and decided to walk. He’s massive, shrouded in a dark, waxed canvas jacket that looks impenetrable. A hood is pulled up, shadowing his face, but I can feel the weight of his stare from here. It hits me harder than the freezing rain.
He isn't moving. He’s just watching me wrestle a rotting piece of architecture in a freezing downpour.
"Help!" I shout, my voice snatched away by the wind. "A little help here?"
He doesn't rush. He doesn't jog. He moves with a terrifying, predatory grace, stalking toward the porch like he owns the very ground beneath his boots. As he gets closer, the sheer scale of him becomes alarming. He has to be over six-four. His shoulders are broad enough to block out the gray skyline.
He steps onto the first stair. The wood groans under his weight, a sound of protest I completely understand.
"Let go," he says.
His voice is a low rumble, gravel grinding against granite. It vibrates in my chest, warm and jarring against the cold.
"Are you crazy?" I shout back, my muscles screaming as I hold the railing up. "If I let go, the whole thing falls off!"
He’s beside me now. He smells like wet pine, woodsmoke, and something sharp like motor oil. Up close, he’s even bigger. He towers over me, a wall of heat and hardness in the freezing chaos.
He reaches out, one hand—a hand the size of a dinner plate, encased in a thick leather glove—and grabs the railing I’m struggling to support.
"I said, let go."
He takes the weight effortlessly. Where I was straining every fiber of my being, he holds the heavy, waterlogged timber with a casual, almost insulting ease.
I let go, my arms trembling as the blood rushes back into them. I stumble back a step, nearly tripping over my toolbox.
"Who are you?" I ask, breathless. My heart is hammering against my ribs, and it’s not just from the exertion.
He ignores me. He inspects the wood, his head tilting slightly. He pushes the railing back into place with a single shove that shakes the entire porch, then holds it there with one hand while he reaches into a pocket with the other. He pulls out a long, wicked-looking nail, seemingly out of nowhere, and produces a hammer from a loop on his belt that looks significantly more professional than mine.
Whack. Whack. Whack.
Three strikes. That’s all it takes.
He drives the spike through the railing and deep into the support post. He does it again a foot lower. In ten seconds, he’s fixed what I’ve been fighting for an hour.
He turns to look at me then, pushing his hood back.
The air leaves my lungs.
He has a thick, dark beard that’s glistening with raindrops, trimmed but wild enough to suggest he doesn't spend much time in front of a mirror. His face is harsh, made of sharp angles and rough terrain, but his eyes... his eyes are the color of moss found deep in a forest where the sun rarely touches. They are intense, intelligent, and currently narrowed at me with a mix of irritation and something else. Something hotter.
"You're trying to get yourself killed," he says flatly.
"I was fixing my porch," I defend, crossing my arms over my chest to stop the shivering. It doesn't work. "I had it under control until the wind picked up."
He snorts, a derisive sound. "You were fixing to crush your foot and freeze to death. Who taught you to hold a hammer? A toddler?"
"Hey!" I bristle, stepping closer to him despite the fact that I have to crane my neck back to look him in the eye. "I’m learning. And for your information, this is my property. You’re trespassing."
He steps into my space. The distance between us vanishes. The heat radiating off him is palpable, a furnace against the chill.
I should be scared—he’s huge, a stranger, and clearly dangerous—but my body doesn't signal fear. It signals something electric. A sudden, sharp pull in my belly that makes my knees feel weaker than the storm did.
"Your property borders Gunnar land," he growls, pointing a gloved finger toward the trees he emerged from. "Which means when you start screaming because a beam fell on you, it’s my problem."
"I didn't scream," I lie. "I called for assistance."
His eyes drop, scanning me from head to toe. I’m wearing oversized coveralls I found at a thrift store, three layers of mismatched sweaters, and a beanie that’s currently soaked through. I look like a drowned rat. But the way his gaze moves over me feels heavy, like a physical touch. It lingers on the curve of my hip where the coveralls pull tight, then snaps back to my face.
