one
. . .
Lila
The snow isn't supposedto be this bad. That's what the ranger told me back at the trailhead lodge three hours ago when I checked the forecast. "Just flurries, ma'am," he'd said with that patronizing smile men reserve for women hiking alone. Now I'm knee-deep in what feels like the apocalypse, the wind howling through the pines like a woman in labor, and I can't feel my goddamn fingers anymore. This is what I get for thinking I could outrun heartbreak by heading to the mountains with nothing but a backpack full of art supplies and broken dreams.
I came here to paint and forget. To erase the memory of John's face when he told me I wasn't enough—wasn't ambitious enough, wasn't exciting enough, wasn'twomanenough. Translation: he was tired of waiting for me to sleep with him. Tired of the scared, frigid little virgin who would only let him kiss him. Six months of my life down the drain because the barista at his favorite coffee shop would put out when I wouldn’t.
I can’t exactly say what was holding me back from giving myself to John fully. It’s not exactly that I’m old-fashioned and am saving myself for marriage. More like, I’m saving myself for…the right one…yeah, that’s it. Has to be. I’m not really a frigid virgin.
Am I?
The mountain was supposed to heal me with its silence. Instead, it might kill me with its fury.
The wind picks up, slicing through my coat like it's made of tissue paper. I can't see more than three feet ahead, the world a violent blur of white. My eyelashes are freezing together, and my teeth chatter so hard I worry they might crack. I've wandered off the trail—I know it, but I can't find my way back. The cold is seeping into my bones, turning them to ice.
Jesus Christ, I'm going to die out here.
A sob catches in my throat. My fingers fumble with my phone—no signal, of course. The battery's at seven percent, draining fast in the cold.
Then I see it. A faint glow through the curtain of snow. I squint, trying to make sure it's not my oxygen-starved brain playing tricks on me. It stays steady, and I stagger toward it, sliding down a small incline, my frozen legs barely keeping me upright.
A cabin. A big one. Smoke curls from the chimney like a beckoning finger.
I push forward with renewed desperation, each step an agony of cold and hope. The structure looms larger as I approach—not just a cabin but a proper home, sturdy logs stacked together against the wilderness. Windows glow amber with firelight. I've never seen anything more beautiful in my life.
The three wooden steps to the porch creak under my weight. I pound on the door with a fist I can barely feel.
"Hello? Please! I need help!"
Nothing.
I knock again, harder this time, fear giving me strength I didn't know I had. "Please! The storm—I'm freezing!"
Still nothing.
Desperation makes me bold. I try the handle, and to my surprise, it turns. The door swings inward on silent hinges, and warm air rushes out to embrace me.
"Hello?" I call, stepping inside. "I'm sorry to intrude, but I got caught in the storm..."
The cabin is even more impressive from within. Vaulted ceilings with exposed beams. A stone fireplace big enough to roast a cow, flames dancing merrily in its hearth. Everything is wood and leather and fur, rustic but immaculately crafted. The furniture isn't store-bought—it's handmade, carved with loving detail, each piece telling a story of patience and skill.
The place smells of pine and smoke and something else I can't identify—something male and earthy.
"Is anyone home?" I venture deeper, leaving puddles of melting snow in my wake. The silence is oppressive, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the howl of wind outside.
A movement in the shadows makes me freeze. At first, I think it's a trick of the firelight, but then a shape detaches itself from the darkness of the hallway.
Holy shit.
A man emerges, and I take an instinctive step back. No, not just a man—agiant. He must be six-foot-seven at least, with shoulders broad as an axe handle and arms thick as tree trunks. His face is half-hidden behind a dark beard streaked with silver, but his eyes catch the firelight—pale and penetrating, studying me with an intensity that steals what little breath I have left.
He doesn't speak. Doesn't move. Just stands there like some pagan god of the forest, massive and unreadable.
"I-I'm so sorry," I stammer, suddenly aware of how I must look—soaking wet, mascara probably streaking down my face, a pathetic drowned rat invading his sanctuary. "The storm came out of nowhere. I got lost. Your door was unlocked..." I trail off,shivering uncontrollably now that the contrast between outside cold and inside warmth is making itself known.
Still, he says nothing. Just stares with those intense eyes that seem to peel away my layers, seeing straight through to my core. I should be terrified. This remote cabin, this mountain of a man who hasn't uttered a word—it's the beginning of every horror movie I've ever seen.
