Page 4

Sawyer

The storm’s long gone by the time the first light hits the cabin, but I’ve been up for hours.

It’s the kind of quiet morning I usually enjoy, cool air creeping through the cracks, birds starting their chatter, the scent of woodsmoke still clinging to everything. Peaceful. Simple. Except now a woman is sleeping in front of the fire.

She started the night in my bed up in the loft, but after a few hours, she came back down with blankets and a pillow. She made a bed in front of the fireplace and drifted right off to sleep.

I lean against the kitchen counter, sipping coffee and watching the soft rise and fall of her breath from across the room. The fire’s low, flickering embers now, but she’s bundled in the flannel I gave her, tangled up in a blanket like she belongs here.

She doesn’t. She doesn’t belong in my space, or my quiet, or in my thoughts, which she’s taken over with ridiculous ease.

I should’ve driven her back to town yesterday, but the road’s still blocked, and the ground’s too soft to risk the truck. That’s what I tell myself. That’s the reason she’s still here. It’s not because I like the sound of her laugh. Not because I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked standing in my clothes, wet hair curling around her neck, eyes bright with challenge. Not that.

She stirs, groaning softly, and blinks against the morning light. “Is that coffee?” she murmurs, her voice scratchy with sleep.

“Yes.”

She stretches, the flannel riding up just enough to flash a strip of bare thigh before she tugs the blanket higher. My eyes snap away too late. She must have taken the sweatpants off at some point.

I fill the second mug and hand it to her. “Careful. It’s hot.”

She accepts it with a sleepy smile. “So are you.”

I blink.

“I mean your coffee’s hot too,” she adds quickly, eyes wide. “Wow. That came out wrong.”

I smirk just a little. “Too early for flirting?”

“Never.”

She sits up, the blanket falling onto her lap. The sunlight catches the gold in her hair, and I find myself watching the way she cradles the mug, fingers curled tight like she needs the warmth.

“Did you sleep?” I ask.

She nods. “Eventually. I was cold in the loft, but once I moved in front of the fire, I slept good.”

I nod and head back into the kitchen. I don’t do breakfast, but I want to impress Tessa, and I’m not going to even think about why. She’s a complication wrapped in sarcasm and big eyes and a mouth that doesn’t quit.

I make eggs, bacon, and toast with butter. Simple.

She pads over, still barefoot, and leans on the counter next to me. “I didn’t peg you for the domestic type,” she says.

“You’re full of assumptions.”

“I’m a journalist. It’s a survival skill.”

I glance at her. “Ever think about asking instead?”

Her lips twitch. “That’s why I made the trip up your mountain.”

We eat at the little table near the window, the morning quiet broken only by clinking forks and the occasional hum of approval from her when she bites into something. She’s not shy about enjoying food, and I’m enjoying the sounds she makes a little too much.”

“So,” she says, licking a bit of jam from her thumb, “what’s the plan today? Still stranded?”

I nod. “The tree’s too big to move without a chainsaw and help. Ground’s soft. Might be a day or two before we can clear it.”

She frowns, but it’s not a real one. More thoughtful. “Guess I’ll make myself useful, then.” She picks up our breakfast dishes and heads into the kitchen.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

Once she’s cleaned up our breakfast to her satisfaction, she turns, brushing crumbs off her borrowed flannel, and looks around like she’s mentally assigning herself tasks. “What needs doing?”

I almost say nothing . I almost tell her to relax, to enjoy her forced mountain vacation. However, the set of her shoulders, the light in her eyes tell me she doesn’t want to sit still.

“Woodpile needs stacking,” I say. “Back side of the cabin. And I’ve got a few repairs to make before the rain hits again.”

She salutes. “Lead the way, boss man.”

She starts to pull her jacket and boots back on, but that just won’t work. I had her one of my lightweight coats and a pair of boots that are about twice the size of her foot.

She tucks some extra socks into the toes and pulls the boots on. We head outside. The air is sharp and bright, the ground damp but not soaked. A few branches litter the yard, but the worst of the damage is up the road. I hand her a pair of gloves and show her how to stack the chopped logs under the overhang.

To my surprise, she doesn’t complain. Doesn’t whine about the weight or the dirt or the way her hair keeps getting caught in the wind. She works in silence for a while, determined, cheeks flushed from effort.

I hammer a loose shutter back into place, glancing over at her every so often.

She’s something else. Funny. Smart. Too observant for her own good. But there’s grit to her, too, and a steadiness. She doesn’t just talk for the sake of filling the silence. She listens. She watches. And she works hard.

By mid-morning, we’re both sweating. I toss her a bottle of water, and she gulps half of it before sighing dramatically. “Do I get a merit badge now?”

“You want a sticker?”

“I want a bath. And maybe a trophy.”

“You’re doing fine.”

She beams. “That’s the highest praise I’ve ever gotten from you.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

We take a break on the porch, sitting on the steps, boots caked in mud and hands calloused from the morning. She stretches her legs out in front of her and leans back on her elbows, face tipped toward the sun.

“You ever think about leaving?” she asks after a long minute.

“Leaving what?”

“The mountain. The quiet. Starting over somewhere else.”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“This is where I belong.”

She nods slowly, like she’s filing the answer away. “What about family?”

I stiffen. “Not here anymore.”

Her eyes flick to mine. “Is that why you like the quiet so much?”

I don’t answer. Just sip my water and stare out at the trees. She doesn’t push.

Instead, she leans closer, bumping her shoulder into mine. “I get it,” she says quietly. “It’s easier to hear your thoughts out here.”

“Not always a good thing.”

She smiles, soft and sad and sweet. “Depends on the thoughts.”

The moment stretches, warm and quiet. Then her hand brushes against mine, barely a graze, but enough. I look down, surprised by the softness of it, and by the way, she doesn’t pull away. Neither do I. Her fingers shift, slow, uncertain, and then settle lightly on top of mine.

We sit there like that for a while. Just breathing. Just touching. Eventually, I stand, and she follows.

Back inside, she helps me prep for lunch, chopping vegetables like she knows what she’s doing. We move easily around each other, passing bowls, bumping hips, trading teasing insults.

At one point, I reach for the salt at the same time she does, and our fingers brush again. She looks up, startled. We’re close now. Close enough to see the flecks of green in her eyes. The tiny scar on her cheekbone. The way her breath hitches when I don’t move away.

The air shifts and becomes heavy, charged. But before I can lean in, before I can cross that final inch, she turns away.

“Your soup’s gonna burn,” she says, voice light, but I see her hands tremble just a little.

After lunch, she insists on washing the dishes again. I don’t argue. I watch her instead. The way her hair falls into her eyes. The way she hums under her breath.

When she’s done, she leans back against the sink and meets my gaze. “You’re not as scary as you pretend to be.”

“Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”

She grins. “Too late.”

I should keep my distance. I should remember that she’s temporary. That she doesn’t belong here. That she has a life waiting for her somewhere that’s not this mountain, not this cabin, not me. But when she smiles at me like that, all soft and sunlit and sure, I forget.