I glance back at her in time to catch the alarm in her expression as she realizes what I'm planning. “Second on the left, but Matt, no! It's too dangerous!”
I turn back. “I'll be careful. Promise.”
Ignoring her protest, I climb. The stairs creak ominously under my feet, and I can feel Eliza's nervous energy even from downstairs, her concern hanging in the tense silence.
I focus on each step as I make my way up, alert to every groan and shift of the damaged structure. The upper hallway isa mess of fallen beams and shattered drywall. I pick my way to Eliza's room, pushing aside memories of navigating similarly treacherous terrain on the rig after the explosion.
The door's jammed, but a solid kick forces it open. Inside, it's chaos. But there, on a desk by the window, I spot a stack of books and papers. Bingo.
I grab them, along with a framed photo of Eliza with her brothers, whom I recognize from earlier. As I turn to leave, a beam above me shifts with a sharp creak. Panic rising, I race for the stairs, taking them two at a time.
I burst into the main room as a section of the upper floor collapses behind me. Eliza cries out, rushing toward me. Her hands are on my face, my chest, checking for injuries.
“Are you okay? That was so stupid! You could have been killed!”
I catch her hand in mine, my pulse racing from something beyond adrenaline. “I'm fine. Look.”
I hold out the books and photo. Eliza's eyes well up with tears as she takes them.
“You ... you risked your life for this?”
The disbelief in her voice makes me uncomfortable. I shrug, feeling foolish. “They seemed important to you.”
Eliza looks at me for a long moment with something unreadable in her eyes. Then she's on her tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her breath warm against my skin.
I stand there, stunned, as she pulls away. The spot where her lips brushed my cheek burns; I have to resist the urge to reach for it.
As we leave the lodge, with books and the photo secured under Eliza's arm, I notice a shift between us. The way she walks closer, her arm brushing mine now and then—it’s subtle, butI can’t ignore it. Part of me likes it; her being here eases the tension in my chest. But another part of me feels uneasy. Letting her in like this feels risky, like stepping onto unstable ground. The lines between us are blurring, and that uncertainty stirs something I’m not sure I’m ready to face.
Back at the cabin, we step inside, and the cozy embrace of the fire greets us immediately. Overhead, the lights glow steadily, chasing away the shadows that once lingered in every corner. The gentle hum of the refrigerator is a constant in the background, a reminder that, despite everything, we’ve regained some sense of normalcy.
Eliza stops in the doorway and looks around. “It feels so different with the lights on,” she says softly, her voice tinged with relief. She turns to me, her smile lighting up the space even more. “It’s like the cabin’s alive again.”
I nod, taking in the small victories that make this place feel less like a refuge and more like home. “It’s a good start,” I say, letting the moment linger.
We spend the evening going over what we’ve salvaged. Eliza’s fingers trace the cover of her study guide, and I find my gaze drawn to her hands. Her fingers are slender but strong, and I remember how they felt when I held them—steady, comforting. I clear my throat, forcing my attention back to our conversation.
“So, a teacher, huh?” I say, breaking the comfortable silence that’s settled between us.
“It’s been my dream since I was a kid. Want to help me study?”
“Sure,” I reply, surprised by my eagerness. “What are we looking at?”
Eliza scoots mere inches from me before she opens the book. “Child development theories. It's fascinating stuff.”
As she explains, I'm captivated, not by the subject but by the passion in her voice. Her eyes light up as she talks about different learning styles and educational philosophies. I ask questions, genuinely interested, and she beams at me.
“You know, you'd make a decent teacher yourself,” she says, nudging my shoulder playfully.
I chuckle, the brief contact lingering in my mind. “I don't know about that. But I'm enjoying learning from you.”
We continue studying, our heads bent close over the book. I can smell the faint scent of her shampoo and feel the brush of her arm against mine as she turns pages. The tension between us builds, electric and unspoken.
As she leans in, pointing to a passage in her book, her concentration is so intense that it stirs something inside me. Without thinking, I reach out, covering her hand with mine. She glances up, surprised, and for a moment, our eyes meet. So many things rise to the surface, but the words stick in my throat, held back by a fear I'm not ready to face. Instead, I let my hand linger there for a moment longer before pulling away, the feel of her skin still warm against mine.
“You're going to make an amazing teacher, Eliza,” I say, my voice softer than I intended. “Really.”
