Page 5

Tessa

There’s a stillness in the cabin tonight that feels different than before. Last night, it was stormy, chaotic, full of wet clothes and sarcastic barbs, and me tripping over my curiosity. But tonight, the quiet is softer, yet heavy with the promise of something, like the whole place is holding its breath.

Sawyer’s sitting on the couch, firelight casting golden shadows across his face. His hair’s damp from a shower, curling slightly at the ends, and he’s wearing a worn navy T-shirt and sweatpants that hang low on his hips.

I hate that I’ve noticed all of this. I hate even more that I keep noticing. There’s something about the way he looks tonight. Not just the way his shirt clings to those arms or the hint of stubble along his jaw. It’s the way he’s so still, watchful, bracing for something.

“Beer?” he asks, nodding toward the bottle on the coffee table.

I nod. “Please.”

He slides it toward me and watches as I take a long sip. The amber glass is cool against my palm, and the fire crackles in the background.

We’ve worked side by side all day, hauling wood, fixing a broken shutter, boiling water on the stove like we live in a pioneer novel. Somehow, I’m not exhausted. I feel settled. And I’m not ready for the day to end.

Sawyer leans back against the cushions, his thigh brushing mine in a way that feels completely casual and yet wildly not.

I glance at him. “Are you always this quiet?”

His mouth twitches like he’s considering a smile but thinks better of it. “I talk when there’s something worth saying.”

“So you’re a man of few words and fewer smiles.”

“Something like that.”

“Very brooding. Very on brand.”

I expect him to grunt or change the subject, but instead, he lets the silence sit for a moment before saying, “You ask a lot of questions.”

“It’s kind of my thing,” I answer with a smile.

“Journalist thing?”

“Human thing.”

He takes a long sip of beer and stares into the fire. “What do you want to know now?”

I turn slightly to face him, legs tucked under me, one arm draped over the back of the couch. “Your story.”

He goes still.

“You said everyone makes one up,” I continue gently. “Let me hear the real one.”

His jaw tightens. “It’s not that interesting.”

“I don’t mind boring.”

His eyes flick to mine. “You don’t?” There’s a long pause, and just when I think he’s going to brush me off completely, he exhales and runs a hand over his face.

“I had a brother,” he says, his voice low and steady.

Had.

The word lodges somewhere in my chest.

“Jesse,” he continues. “Younger than me by three years. He was always the louder one, the risk-taker. He was the reason I ever left the mountain at all. He wanted more than this.” He gestures around the cabin.

“What happened?” I ask softly.

Sawyer doesn’t look at me. Just keeps staring into the flames.

“Car accident. Winter storm. He was driving back from Raleigh after visiting a friend. The roads had iced over, and he skid off the highway.”

My heart aches. “God, Sawyer. I’m so sorry.”

He nods once, but I can tell he’s far away now. “After that… I couldn’t stay in town. Everyone looked at me like I was glass, like I might break with a word. So, I came up here, built something with my hands. Stayed busy. Stopped answering calls.”

“Is that why you hate the Instagram stuff?” I ask quietly.

His laugh is bitter. “It’s not even really me they’re seeing. It’s a version. A filtered daydream in plaid. No one wants the guy who couldn’t save his brother. They want the guy with an axe and a beard who chops wood for fun.”

“Jesse’s death wasn’t your fault. You said it yourself, the roads were icy.” I take a deep breath. “I think you are so much more than a guy with an axe who chops wood.”

He finally looks at me, and his expression shifts. There’s no wall between us now. Just Sawyer, raw and unguarded, looking like he’s standing on the edge.

My hand finds his before I even realize I’ve moved. I lace our fingers together slowly, giving him the chance to pull away. He doesn’t.

His thumb brushes over the back of my hand, tentative, like he’s not used to being touched. Or maybe he is, but not like this. Not in the kind of silence that says I see you, and I’m not running.

“I’m tired,” he says after a minute. I can see in his eyes that it’s not a physical exhaustion but something much deeper than that.

“Me too.”

He looks at me, and I realize I haven’t told him anything real yet. Not like he just told me, and I want to share a part of myself with him. I squeeze his hand and let the truth fall out.

“I thought I wanted to tell stories. Important ones. Ones that mattered. The only job I was able to get was writing fluff pieces and gossip. I wrote an article that lists the top ten most dateable dog dads in Brooklyn. Deep dives on the latest TikTok breakup drama. You know how long I spent writing about a woman who convinced her followers she was married to a ghost pirate?”

His eyebrows lift.

“Three weeks,” I say grimly. “He ‘cheated’ on her with her best friend’s ghost. There were charts.”

Sawyer doesn’t laugh, but something close to amusement flickers in his eyes.

“I thought this assignment would be different,” I admit. “Even if it started silly, I thought maybe, being here, chasing this story, I’d feel like a journalist again.”

He’s quiet for a second. “Do you?”

I nod slowly. “I think I’m remembering what it feels like to care about something real.”

The space between us shrinks. I don’t even realize we’re leaning until I feel his breath against my cheek. He’s so close. His hand still in mine. Our knees are touching. His eyes locked on my mouth.

I can’t breathe. I can’t move. My heart is thudding so loudly that I’m sure he can hear it. He shifts forward, just an inch, and I tilt my head, lips parting without thought. His hand slides to my jaw, slow and reverent. His thumb grazes my cheek. And then—

Bang!

There’s a loud thud against the cabin wall. We both jump. Sawyer is on his feet in a flash, muscles coiled, instincts sharp. He crosses the room in three strides and throws open the front door.

Nothing.

The wind picks up, tossing branches across the clearing. Something clatters off the porch—a loose shutter knocking against the side of the house. He steps out, checks the perimeter, then comes back in and locks the door.

“I think it was the shutter,” he says gruffly.

But the moment is gone.

Whatever it was that passed between us, whatever we almost did, it floating somewhere in the smoke of the fire, already cooling. I pull my legs up onto the couch and hug the blanket tighter.

Sawyer sits across from me this time, not next to me, and we don’t speak for the rest of the night. I don’t miss the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not watching or how I already know I’ll never forget the feel of his hand in mine.