Now and then she looked out the window at the pines, the rough slope, the hard cuts of the access road. The red bandana at her wrist brushed the tote whenever the truck bounced, and herfingers went still against the canvas when the cabin ridge came into view. She fit the quiet differently than I’d expected. Still warm enough to pull a man’s attention if he let it.
I didn’t let it for more than two seconds at a time.
The cabin came into view as we turned the last bend, tucked against the ridge with the porch facing west. The private firepit sat in the clearing to the side, ringed in stone, ten feet from bare dirt and thirty from brush. Beyond the cabin, the narrow footpath dropped toward the creek. In the hush after the engine died, water moved below us over rock, steady and cold.
Sunny climbed out and stood still.
Her mouth curved once, then she looked back at the cabin instead of filling the quiet.
I rounded the truck with the tote in one hand. “You expected a bunker?”
“I expected practical,” she said. “I didn’t expect pretty.”
“It’s not pretty.”
“Sure. The hand-built cabin with the sunset view and the secret creek is ruggedly hideous. My mistake.”
I looked at the porch, the stacked wood, the fire tools lined where I could grab them fast. “It’s just where I live.”
“That’s probably why it works.”
My grip shifted on the tote.
I carried the tote to the firepit and set it on the flat stump I used as a side table. “Fire stays small.”
Sunny followed me. “I know.”
“Water can is here. Sand is there. Wind’s coming light from the west, so smoke should lift.”
“I know.”
“If it changes—”
“We pause.” She stepped into my line of sight. “I listen sometimes.”
“I noticed.”
One dimple showed. “You’re doing it again.”
“What?”
“Praise. It’s unsettling.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No.” Sunny softened around the word, not enough to lose the teasing but enough that I felt it in my hands. “I like it when you notice I’m trying.”
The fire caught fast under the kindling. Small flame, clean rise, no spit. I fed it just enough to build a bed of coals while Sunny unpacked her tote with the concentration of a woman preparing surgery. Chocolate bars. Marshmallows. Graham crackers. A small jar of fudge sauce. A tiny tin of flaky salt. Metal skewers. Cloth napkins. A sealed bag of ice.
“You own travel salt,” I said.
“I own many salts. This is my wilderness salt.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is if you believe.”
“I don’t.”
