"Maybe I like being alone."
"Bullshit." He pushes off the frame, moving closer. "You're too good at it. The isolation, the careful routine, the way you watch the road like you're expecting someone. That's not preference. That's survival."
My heart hammers against my ribs. He's too close, too observant, too everything. I need to redirect this conversation before he digs any deeper.
"We need supplies." I throw the blanket off and stand, putting the bed between us.
"Don't change the subject."
"I'm not. We're actually low on food, and you need proper clothes if you're staying here." I move toward the dresser, pulling out jeans and a sweater.
I don't wait for his response. The bathroom door closes behind me with a soft click, and I lean against it, trying to steady my breathing. This is bad. He's too smart, too perceptive. And the way he looks at me, like he can see straight through every wall I've built, makes me feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with my thin tank top.
I dress quickly, pulling on thermal leggings under my jeans and layering a flannel over my sweater. When I emerge, Sasha's in the kitchen, coffee already brewing.
"You know how to make coffee." I try for light, casual.
"I know how to do a lot of things." He pours two mugs without asking. "Including reading people."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's an observation." He hands me a mug, his fingers brushing mine. The contact sends electricity up my arm. "You're scared. Not of me, I don't think. But of something."
I wrap both hands around the mug, using it as a shield. "Everyone's scared of something."
"True." He leans against the counter, those dark eyes never leaving my face. "But most people don't run this far to hide from it."
"Maybe I just like the mountains."
"And maybe I'm actually an accountant who got lost on a hiking trip." His mouth quirks. "We're both full of shit, Maya. Difference is, I'm not pretending otherwise."
Despite everything, I almost smile. "An accountant?"
"Too boring?"
"Too…" I gesture at him, at the dangerous energy that radiates off him even standing still in my kitchen. "Everything."
"I'll take that as a compliment." He sips his coffee, watching me over the rim. "You're determined to go for supplies, even when we know there were guys there asking about us?"
"I think it's a risk we need to take," I say slowly, then stand and grab my truck keys from the hanger on the wall. "We can sit here and starve, or we can risk going to town, maybe even find out something about the men looking for us."
He sets his mug down with deliberate care, the ceramic making a soft clink against the counter. "Then we move now. While we have the chance."
He pushes off from the counter and walks toward the door where I'm standing, truck keys in hand and purse slung over one shoulder.
He reaches past me to open the door. His hand lingers on the doorframe, blocking my path for just a moment while his eyes scan the tree line beyond the porch.
"Stay close," he says quietly.
The walk to the truck is silent except for gravel crunching under our boots. He moves like he's expecting an ambush, each step deliberate, his attention split between the road and the forest. When we reach the truck, I unlock it and slide into the driver's seat. He takes the passenger side, adjusting the seat back so he has a clear view of both mirrors.
The engine turns over, and I pull onto the mountain road. The landscape unfolds around us, dense forest giving way to patches of open sky. Beautiful and isolating in equal measure.
Beside me, Sasha is utterly still. Every few seconds, his eyes flick to the mirrors, then back to the road ahead. Not relaxed. Never relaxed.
"There's someone who might be able to help," I say after a few minutes of silence. My hands tighten on the wheel. "John Davis. The cop. He's been in the area for years, and he's more observant than anyone else. If those men have been around asking questions, showing pictures, he'd have noticed."
The temperature in the truck drops about ten degrees.
