Muttering a curse under my breath as I take off my boots, not wanting to make a sound, I hear the familiar pops of a fire.
What kind of burglar feeds a fire?
I get my answer pretty quickly. Carefully entering my home, searching for any signs of life, I find a ball of a woman curled up on my couch. Not a burglar, but a trespasser.
How can someone help themselves to another person's home so casually, and then fall asleep?
But that's not the biggest issue here. It's the familiar flannel that's covering her top half. Barely her lower half now that my eyes are lingering. Instead of wondering what she's wearing beneathmyshirt, her ankle snags my attention.
There's a poorly wrapped bandage around her swollen joint. Loose enough to be more of a problem than a fix.
Gone for two hours, there's no telling what all this woman has gotten her hands on. I should be immediately waking her up and asking her what she thinks she's doing. Obviously, this isn't okay.
The low rumble of distant thunder makes me wonder what this person was doing out there in the first place. Surely, she knew about the storm warnings. Hell, anyone who either lives on the mountain or plans on hiking it always checks the weather.
She appears harmless and not at all what I expected as I awkwardly look around and try to decide what to do.
Feeding the fire and heating up leftovers keeps my hands busy; I'm too distracted to move manually. My hands feel like the movement is automated. Every time I turn, my eyes land on her. On that messy brown hair spilling over the cushion.
I'm pretty sure she used my shower from the smell lingering in the air.
I should scold this woman the moment she wakes up. The list of reasons why is growing by the minute.
What if she'd stumbled inside of the wrong cabin? Just because I'm more laid-back doesn't mean my neighbors are.
It's not until the smell of soup is filling the home that I hear it, the soft pad of feet against the ground.
Preparing myself for this interaction shouldn't be so difficult. It's just a woman.
I turn around, bracing myself to play the part of the gruff, wronged homeowner. I have a whole lecture lined up.Why my cabin? Why touch my things? How can she easily be so trusting?
But the words die in my throat.
She’s leaning against the doorframe of the hallway, looking small and fragile, clutching the oversized hem of my flannel like a shield. But it’s her eyes that knock the air straight out of my lungs. They’re wide, a little glassy from sleep, and a startling, forest green that hits me like a physical blow to the chest.
Oh. Ohfuck. She's pretty. Even more so when her cheeks suddenly turn a deep scarlet. Well, there goes my quiet life. My sanity, too, with the way my thoughts fizzle out right then and there.
Seeing me standing and staring has her shifting back just enough to hide behind the arch, but I don't miss the way she limps.
"May as well take a seat. You've already helped yourself enough as it is." The words come out as they should, but they're missing the bite needed.
"I-I can explain." Her voice is soft, wavering with nerves. Maybe fear, too. Hard to tell, but I know I don't like it.
I'm not that scary, am I?
"Do it over some food. Unless you've savaged my fridge while I was gone?"
She shakes her head and hesitantly moves forward. As she walks, she tries not to wince with every step.
"Have you taken any painkillers?" Grabbing a second bowl, I fill it to the brim before setting it in front of her. "Your wrapping skills are terrible."
Shaking her head, she looks at the food longingly before I hear it, the soft rumble of her stomach. "I've never really needed to learn, thank you."
With a surprised bite to her words, I can't help but crack a smile at that.
Disappearing long enough to grab a bottle of pills, I set them down in front of her, fetching her water to drink. Now that her needs are taken care of, my attention moves to her injury.
I drop straight to my knees on the floorboards right in front of her.
