1
EMORY
Silence.
Actual, honest-to-God silence.
I stood on the back porch of the cabin I’d be calling home for the next three weeks and just listened. No roommates arguing about whose turn it was to buy toilet paper. No neighbors blasting music at two in the morning. No car alarms, sirens, or people shouting in the parking lot.
Just birds. Wind threading through the trees. The distant rush of water somewhere—maybe a creek. Maybe a stream.
I could cry. I might actually cry.
Instead, I pulled out my phone and checked my email.
Three messages from my property law professor about an upcoming exam. Two from my study group asking where I’d disappeared to. One from my mom with the subject lineARE YOU ALIVE, complete with seven exclamation points.
I typed back a quick response to my mom, assuring her I hadn’t been kidnapped, then silenced my notifications. The whole point of coming to Iron Peak was to escape distractions. If I kept checking my phone every five minutes, I’d defeat the purpose.
The cabin was small but perfect. One bedroom, one bathroom, and a kitchen that opened into a living area with a wood-burning stove. The owner—a woman named Eunice, who I’d connected with through a house-sitting website—had left detailed instructions about everything from the finicky garbage disposal to the best hiking trails nearby. She was spending three weeks in Italy visiting her sister and needed someone to water her plants and keep an eye on the place.
I needed somewhere quiet to study for midterms without losing my mind. It was a perfect arrangement.
I’d arrived yesterday afternoon, unpacked my suitcases full of textbooks, highlighters, and legal pads, and promptly passed out on the couch for twelve hours. That was how exhausted I’d been. Between my three roommates, our paper-thin walls, and the construction happening in the apartment above us, I hadn’t slept properly in weeks.
Now it was morning—early, based on the angle of the sun—and I felt like a new person. The weather was unseasonably warm for early spring in the Colorado mountains. Eunice had warned me to pack layers, but when I stepped outside to grab my coffee, the air had been almost balmy. Shorts weather. Tank top weather.
Yoga weather.
I hadn’t done yoga in months. There was never enough space in our cramped apartment, and I always felt self-conscious with my roommates wandering past. But here, with nothing but trees and mountains and blessed quiet, I could stretch without anyone watching.
I changed into my favorite leggings—the high-waisted ones that actually stayed up—and a sports bra. Then I grabbed my mat and my earbuds and headed outside.
The back deck was wide and wooden, overlooking a small yard that backed up to another cabin. That one looked similar tomine, maybe a little larger. A truck sat in the driveway. Eunice had mentioned a neighbor but said he mostly kept to himself.
Perfect. The last thing I needed was some chatty local interrupting my morning routine.
I rolled out my mat, popped in my earbuds, and pulled up my favorite playlist. The first notes of a slow instrumental track filled my ears as I moved into mountain pose.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
I flowed through the familiar sequence, letting my thoughts fade. Forward fold. Halfway lift. Step back to plank. Lower down. Upward dog. Downward dog.
God, this felt good. The sun warmed my back, the air was crisp and clean, and for the first time in months, I wasn’t thinking about torts or contracts or civil procedure.
I moved through warrior one, warrior two, extended side angle. My body remembered the poses even though it had been a while. I might be curvy—okay, very curvy—but I was flexible. Always had been.
Triangle pose. Half moon. Standing splits.
By the time I came back to downward dog, I was breathing hard but smiling. I held the pose, enjoying the stretch in my hamstrings, and let my gaze drift to the space between my feet.
That was when I saw him.
A man stood on the porch of the neighboring cabin, a coffee mug in his hand, staring directly at me. He wasn’t even pretending not to look. Just standing there, frozen, like I’d caught him in the middle of something.
I straightened quickly, pulling out one earbud. Our eyes met across the two yards.
He was tall. That was the first thing I noticed. Tall and broad, with dark hair cut short and stubble shadowing his jaw. He wore a plain gray T-shirt and jeans, and even from this distance, Icould make out the definition in his arms. Construction worker, maybe. Or someone used to physical labor.
