Page 37 of Curvy Cabin Fever

ARIA

T he silence hits harder than I expect.

Not the empty kind—just the kind that settles heavily across the cabin once the truck carrying Rhett and Morgan disappears down the long drive. I stand on the porch for a long time after they go, watching the tire tracks wind into the trees until they fade from sight.

Morgan blew me a kiss before he climbed into the passenger seat. Rhett didn’t say much, but the way he squeezed my hand like he was afraid to let go said everything.

And now it’s just me and Damien.

I go inside, blinking back the sting in my throat, and find him still standing in the kitchen, arms crossed, watching me like he knows I’m two steps from losing it.

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod, but then shake my head.

Damien walks over slowly and wraps an arm around my shoulders. Not possessively—just reassuringly. Like he always does.

“They’ll come back,” he says into my hair.

“I know.”

“They love you.”

“I know that too.”

He presses a kiss to the top of my head and pulls back enough to look me in the eye. “But you’re mine this week.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Yours?”

“All fucking mine.”

He keeps it light at first—pulling together lunch, teasing me about how bad I am at stacking firewood, showing me how to reset the generator, just in case. We take a walk down the ridge trail before dark, the snow crunching underfoot, our hands brushing more than holding.

It’s domestic and peaceful.

But there’s tension humming just beneath it. The kind that says: this won’t stay quiet for long.

That night, we sit on the couch with mugs of hot cider. Damien stretches an arm across the back, and I curl into his side, warm and full and sleepy from the chill outside.

“I called my landlord today,” I say softly. “Told him I won’t be coming back.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just tightens his arm around me.

“I also started filling out a change-of-address form with my bank.”

That earns me a small smile. “You serious?” he murmurs.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” He presses a kiss just behind my ear, and something in me melts. “You belong here,” he says.

“With you?”

“With us. But right now? With me.”

Later, when we’re in bed—our clothes still on, bodies tangled beneath the quilt—I reach for him.

“Make me forget everything else,” I whisper.

His mouth is on mine before I finish the sentence, rough and hot and full of the promise he made on the porch.

Mine.

“Tell me something true,” I request the next morning. We’re sitting on the porch despite the chill, watching the sun climb over the pines. “Something I don’t know about you.”

Damien gives me a sideways look. “Fishing for secrets already?”

“Not secrets. Just...you.”

He’s quiet for so long, I think he won’t answer. Then: “My father was a carpenter. He built custom homes.”

I turn to face him. “Is that why you became an architect?”

“Partly. I’d watch him work when I was a kid.” His eyes stay fixed on the tree line. “He had this ability to see the finished product before he even started. I wanted that too.”

“The vision?”

He nods. “And the ability to create something lasting. Something that matters.”

The passion in his voice draws me in. “I’d love to see your work someday.”

“You will.” His eyes find mine. “Your turn. Something true.”

I pull the quilt tighter around my shoulders. “My mom’s never met anyone I’ve dated. Not one person.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’d measure them against my dad, and no one would ever be good enough.” I watch steam rise from my mug. “She still wears her wedding ring. It’s been fifteen years since he died.”

Damien shifts closer, his warmth seeping through the blanket. “Would we disappoint her? The three of us?”

I laugh, imagining my straight-laced mother meeting my three...what? Boyfriends? Partners? “She’d have a stroke on the spot.”

“But you’re still here.”

I look at him then, at the morning stubble darkening his jaw, at eyes the color of rain-washed slate. “Yeah. I’m still here.”

The next afternoon, I find him working in what must be the study—a small room with windows that face the mountains. Blueprints spread across the desk, a laptop open beside them.

“So this is where the magic happens,” I remark, leaning against the doorframe.

He glances up, hair falling across his forehead. “Not the only place.”

I walk over, peer down at the intricate drawings. “What are you working on?”

“Community development outside Seattle. Sustainable housing that normal people can actually afford.” His finger traces a curved line. “Solar panels on every roof. Shared green spaces. Storm water reclamation.”

“You don’t just build rich people’s vacation homes?”

His mouth quirks. “Those pay the bills. This is what matters.”

I study him, this man I’m still learning. “How’d you meet them? Rhett and Morgan?”

Damien leans back in his chair. “Morgan, I met in college. We had some classes together—I was taking design electives, he was there for...” He smiles. “Actually, I think he was just there to meet people. That’s Morgan.”

I smile, picturing it. “And Rhett?”

“Through Morgan.” He taps his pen against the desk. “They’d known each other since they were kids. Morgan mentions it sometimes. They grew up in the same neighborhood.”

I think about that—Morgan with his big, loving family and easy smile, the unspoken closeness he shares with Rhett that even I’ve noticed. “They seem like they have history.”

“They do.” Something crosses his face—awareness, maybe understanding. “More than they talk about, I think.”

I lean against the desk. “And now?”

“Now we’re family.” He says it simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. ‘The kind you choose.”

I think about my own fractured family—mother lost in grief for fifteen years, brother escaped to Europe, me drifting until the storm that brought me here.

“I’ve never had that,” I admit.

Damien stands, crosses to me in two long strides. His fingers tilt my chin up. “You do now.”

That night, after dinner, I find an old photo album on the bookshelf. Damien sits beside me as I flip through it—snapshots of three men becoming friends, becoming more.

“When was this taken?” I ask, pointing to a photo of the three of them on the porch, tools scattered around what looks like a construction site.

“About ten years ago. Right after Rhett inherited this place from his grandfather.” Damien points to a pile of lumber. “We spent that whole summer fixing it up. New roof. Rewired the place. Built the deck.”

“All three of you?”

“Mostly. Morgan did the heavy lifting.” He smiles at the memory. “You’ve seen those muscles. Not just from the gym.”

I turn pages, watching the evolution of their friendship across time.

Damien at a construction site with blueprints.

Morgan—even broader than he is now, sleeve tattoos only half-completed—grilling at some outdoor gathering.

Rhett in a suit at what looks like a court building, Morgan’s arm slung companionably around his shoulders.

“Morgan’s close to his family, isn’t he?” I question, noticing several photos showing Morgan with a woman who must be his mother—same wide smile, same crinkled eyes.

“Very. Especially his mom. She’s the reason he cooks so well.” Damien points to another photo—the three of them at what looks like a big family dinner. “She used to cook for half the neighborhood. Morgan grew up helping in the kitchen.”

“Is that why he almost became a chef instead of a fitness instructor?”

“He told you about that?”

I nod. “The first night after we...well, after everything started. When he made us breakfast.”

Damien’s expression softens. “Sounds like Morgan. He’s always taking care of everyone.”

As we continue through the album, I notice something—the way Rhett and Morgan always seem to stand close in photos, the way Morgan’s hand often rests on Rhett’s shoulder or back. The look in Morgan’s eyes when he’s watching Rhett and doesn’t know the camera is on him.

“They love each other, don’t they?” I inquire quietly. “Rhett and Morgan. It’s not just friendship.”

Damien studies the photo I’m looking at—Morgan watching Rhett at what appears to be someone’s birthday party. “I think they have for a long time. Whether they’ve ever said it out loud...” He shrugs. “That’s their business.”

“And you?”

His eyes meet mine. “I love them both. Not like I love you. More like brothers.”

“That’s...rare.”

“So is this. What we’re building, it’s a family.” He takes my hand, turns it over to trace the lines of my palm.

I study him. “You think that’s what’s happening?”

“I know it is.” His voice drops. “I’ve wanted you since you walked through that door in the snowstorm. Soaking wet. Glaring at me like I was the last person you wanted to see.”

“You were insufferable.”

“And you weren’t fazed.” His thumb presses into my wrist, finding my pulse. “Do you have any idea how rare that is?”

I smile. “Women are intimidated by you?”

“They’re either intimidated or they see me as a challenge. Someone to conquer.” His voice drops. “You just saw me. Called me on my shit. Didn’t play games.”

“I don’t know how to play games.”

“Good.” He leans closer. “Neither do I.”

Days pass. We fall into a rhythm that feels dangerously easy.

Mornings are quiet—coffee, work for him, reading for me.

Afternoons we spend exploring the property, him showing me the creek that runs along the eastern boundary, the old hunting blind Rhett’s grandfather built, the shed full of tools they use for maintaining the place.

In the evenings, we cook together. He’s surprisingly skilled in the kitchen, moving with the same precision I imagine he brings to his architectural designs.

“Where’d you learn to cook?” I ask, watching him dice vegetables with practiced ease.

“My mother. She believed every man should be able to feed himself properly.” He slides the veggies into a pan where they sizzle in olive oil. “Though I’ll never be as good as Morgan.”

“Has he always been the cook among you?”