The man was a paragon of routine.
Each morning, first light signaled his prepping for departure.
He moved through a rigid sequence: stoking the embers, hauling buckets of well water for the troughs, and then making a packed lunch of cheese, bread, and beer, she assumed he brewed himself.
He always made sure there was food on the fire, a slow-bubbling stew most of the time, before leaving. Presumably to shepherd his flock into the high meadows where the grass grew thickest.
She tracked his movements from the window, following his muscled silhouette until it dissolved into the horizon.
He was gone for hours, leaving her to the creak of the timber walls, the high-pitched bleat of the orphaned lamb now under her care, and the wind whistling through the eaves.
She occupied herself regardless, starting each day with a long soak in his bathhouse.
The tub was a massive, rock-hewn basin, nearly the scale of a plunge pool, housed in the attached cedar lean-to.
Mineral-rich hot water, pulled from deep within the mountain’s core, surged through a cast-iron pump handle, steaming as it hit the cool air.
His soap was equally artisanal; he’d explained that a local mountain tribe pressed the suds from wild, blooming flora.
She scooped the thick cream from a stone jar, the fragrance of crushed ginger and floral vanilla filling the air as it lathered into a dense, velvety foam against her skin.
Once dry, she plaited her hair into a tight braid and scavenged through his bookshelf.
Her interest plummeted when she realized the vast majority of the volumes were bound in vellum and written in complex Sacran script, their meanings locked away in a language she couldn’t decode.
Restless, she turned to the kitchen.
Using his stone-ground flour, oats, and wild honey, she baked fluffy oat cakes that filled the hut with a warm, yeasty aroma.
By the second evening, however, the newness wore off, and domesticity was more of a cage.
The isolation gave way to a profound need to prove her utility.
She waited for him that evening, reading a book from her commtab stash, which had miraculously survived the ordeal.
The door opened, and the cabin went dark. This was no cloud passing over the sun; it was simply Idan.
He eased in at the threshold, as the dying light flared behind him in a violent riot of magenta and burnt orange.
He had to duck his head to clear the timber frame, his massive, leather-clad shoulders nearly scraping the pillars on either side.
Even in the dimness, his presence simmered with heat and ancient power, making the interior feel suddenly, impossibly cramped.
He straightened up, his head clearing the rafters by a mere inch.
Sheba, who studied his ingress, arched an eyebrow at the sheer scale of him.
‘When you step in, your home seems like a dollhouse, Idan,’ she remarked, her voice dry yet laced with a hint of a smile. ‘Try not to exhale too hard, or the roof might pop off, which I happen to like because it keeps the elements off my head.’
Idan paused, the corner of his mouth giving into a microscopic twitch.
‘What did you bring?’ she said, changing tack.
His arms overflowed with supplies from the barn: a bag of flour and a bunch of fresh vegetables, which he set down on the counter.
Ingredients for dinner.
She rose and went to him, then, on instinct, reached out to brush snow from his hair.
