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three

Sawyer

I'd severely underestimated how cold it got at night up here in the mountains. Even with my coat and boots, the frigid dampness seeped into my bones.

The chill is sharply contrasted by the heat radiating from Byron. He's a mountain of a mountain man, pun intended. I feel tiny sitting beside him at the base of a giant fir tree.He's a wall of warm, solid muscle. I watch as he settles against the tree, his arms resting on his knees. I wonder if his face is frozen in a permanent scowl.

"You know you didn't have to do this, right?" I say to break the silence.

"I know," he says gruffly. "But I wanted to."

"Why?"

"Because not many people care about the forest anymore," his expression softens.

"Well, I do." I glance down at my phone. I stopped the live stream an hour ago to conserve battery.

Darkmore's reception is spotty at best, and the last thing I need is for my phone to die when the loggers come back.

Byron shifts to get more comfortable. Well, as comfortable as one can get chained to a tree. He's quiet, his expression thoughtful as he looks up at the canopy above.

"You really care about this place, don't you?" I ask softly, trying not to disturb the peace.

He nods, his eyes never leaving the branches. "My family has lived in these woods for generations. My great-great-grandfather was one of the first settlers here. He built our family cabin with his own hands, using the timber from this very forest." Byron's voice is filled with pride and reverence, his eyes reflecting the memories that play out in his mind. "He taught our family to respect the land, to live in harmony with it. These woods are a part of me, Sawyer. They're in my blood."

I reach out, placing a hand on his arm. It's like touching a stone wall, solid and unyielding. "I'm glad you're here with me, then," I say gently.

"Me too," he says.

The silence fills the space between us for a while. There's no sound except the wind and crickets chirping.

Then, my stomach growls.

I gasp, my face going red.

"Hungry?" he asks.

I nod, quickly unzipping my fanny pack and pulling out two protein bars. "I came prepared. Want one?"

Byron looks down his nose at the foil-wrapped snack. "I'd hardly call that prepared," he snorts.

My face burns hotter. "Really? What's prepared to you, then?"

The mountain man chuckles and hauls over one of his bags. "These are why I disappeared earlier. I had to make sure we had enough supplies for the long haul." He moves as best as he can while chained to me, unpacking a small gas stove, pot, water, and freeze-dried chili.

"Can't ever be too prepared out here, Sawyer," he explains.

In less than ten minutes, there's a steaming cup of chili before me.

I'm too humbled by him to say anything snarky. Instead, we eat in silence.

The chili is surprisingly good, warming me from the inside out. I watch Byron as he eats, the way his strong jaw moves, the way a stray lock of hair falls across his forehead. He's a man who looks like he knows his way around the wilderness, a man who's comfortable in his skin.

I decide there's no one else I'd rather be chained to a tree with.

After we finish eating, Byron cleans up, packing the stove and pot back into his bag. I watch him move, his broad shoulders flexing under his shirt. Once everything is packed away, he leans against the tree.

"Well, we should try to sleep." His suggestion seems more like an order.

"Fine," I agree, checking my phone. My DMs are blowing up with messages from other environmentalists. And my local activist group, the people who laughed at my idea, are texting me non-stop.

I plug my phone into my portable charger and tuck it into my fanny pack.

"Good night, Sawyer," Byron says. He wraps a wool blanket around me. Another treasure from his kit.

"Night," I whisper before falling asleep.

When I wake early the next morning, I'm slumped against Byron. The red flannel of his shirt is warm under my skin. For a moment, I hesitate, enjoying the closeness. Then, reality strikes, and I push myself upright.

Byron stirs, his eyes fluttering open. He looks at me, his expression unreadable. "Morning," he grumbles, rubbing his eyes.

I brush some leaves off my jacket and try to clear my mind. I can feel my cheeks heating up, but I force myself to ignore it. "Good morning," I reply my voice a little too cheerful.

I glance around, taking in our surroundings. The sun peeks through the dense canopy, casting dappled light onto the forest floor. I can hear the distant chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves as small creatures scurry about their morning. I rub my eyes, trying to shake off the grogginess of sleep.

Byron is already up, his broad back to me as he tends to something near his backpack. I take a moment to appreciate the view, the play of muscles beneath his shirt, and the rugged strength in every movement. He's a man built for survival, and he knows this land like it's a part of him.

I stretch, feeling the stiffness in my joints from sleeping in such an awkward position. Then, I realize I have to pee.

The mountain man must feel the tension in the air. "Is everything ok?" he asks.

"Don't suppose you have a little girl's room in those bags of yours?" I ask.

"Nah, just use the bushes," he says matter-of-factly.

My face goes red. "We're chained together."

"I won't peek," he says with his back to me. ”There’s enough slack on this chain.”

Grumbling, I shimmy up to a standing position, using what little slack the chain allows to move to the other side of the tree. It's possibly the most embarrassing pee of my life, and I thank God when it's over.

Byron doesn't seem bothered with the chain pulled taut. He doesn't look up when I come back to his side of the tree. "Feel better?"

"Yes," I grab the protein bar from my fanny pack and stuff a bite in my mouth. I chew aggressively, trying to ignore the shame burning in my gut.

The mountain man laughs after a while. "You're a city girl, aren't you?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Well, I had my suspicions, but that morning routine debacle confirmed it," he says. "Living in the middle of nowhere like I do, it's easy to forget how... convenient city life is."

I sit down beside him, trying to act nonchalant. "Yeah, well, I'm sure you have challenges out here."

He looks at me, a wry smile on his face. "That's one way to put it. But it's not all bad. There's a certain peace to it. A quiet that's hard to find anywhere else."

I nod, looking out at the forest around us. "I can see that. It's beautiful here," I say, gazing at the towering trees. "But it must get lonely sometimes."

Byron's expression softens, and he looks out at the forest as well. "Sometimes it does. But I've never been one for crowds or cities. The solitude suits me."

I wonder why he's committed himself to a life as a hermit, but I don't get a chance to ask.

The rumble of ATVs fills the air as the loggers return. My heart races, but Byron's steady presence beside me calms my nerves. He smooths his beard, eyes narrowing as he watches the men approach.

The lead logger, Mr. Mustache, as I've named him in my mind, steps forward, his face a storm cloud. "Alright, you two. This farce ends now." He gestures to two of his men, who step forward with bolt cutters.

Byron tenses, his hands clenching into fists. "You're not cutting this chain, and you're sure as hell not cutting down this tree," he growls.

Mr. Mustache sneers. "Oh yeah?” He holds up a sheet of paper. “This is from our lawyers. Refuse, and the Rangers will remove you by force.”