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three

Jordyn

I didn't expect to end up sharing my escape cabin with a grumpy stranger, but as I towel my hair dry, I can't help thinking this storm might be the most exciting thing to happen to me in months.

"Here," I say, offering Slate the largest, fluffiest towel I could find. "You're dripping all over the floor."

He takes it with a grunt that I'm beginning to interpret as his version of "thank you." The towel looks comically small in his large hands. Everything about him is oversized compared to the carefully proportioned furniture of the rental cabin.

"You can sit down, you know," I tell him, gesturing to the sofa. "It's just water."

He looks skeptical but moves toward the couch, leaving a trail of wet footprints.

I try not to stare as he runs the towel over his dark hair, but it's difficult.

There's something magnetic about his movements—efficient, purposeful, nothing wasted.

Completely unlike the calculated gestures of men in my social circle, who seem to constantly pose for an invisible audience.

"Did you reach anyone on the phone?" I ask, tending to the growing fire.

"Straight to voicemail," he says. "Storm's probably knocked out some lines."

"Well, looks like you're stuck here until it passes. Are you hungry? I brought some groceries."

He hesitates. "I don't want to impose."

"It's pasta and jarred sauce, not a five-course meal," I say, rolling my eyes. "Besides, I'm cooking for myself anyway."

Without waiting for his response, I head to the kitchen. I can feel his eyes on me as I move around, pulling ingredients from shopping bags. For some reason, I want to prove to him that I'm not completely helpless.

I focus on filling a pot with water. "You can use the bathroom to change, y'know. Better than sitting in wet clothes."

He gives me a look but takes his bag to the bathroom. I quickly change into leggings and an oversized sweater in the second bedroom. My hair is a disaster without makeup, but somehow I can't bring myself to care. It's liberating after a lifetime of always being "presentable."

When I return, Slate is wearing a dry flannel shirt and jeans, looking less drenched but still uncomfortable. He hangs up the phone.

"Any luck?" I ask, checking the water.

"Got through to Mitchell's Auto, but they can't get a tow truck up here until the storm passes. Roads are already flooding."

"So you're definitely staying the night," I say, trying to keep my tone neutral despite the flutter in my stomach.

He rubs the back of his neck and sighs. "Looks that way."

"Well, I promise not to bite," I smile. "Though I can't promise the same for whatever wildlife might be outside."

This earns me the closest thing to a smile I've seen from him—just a slight softening around his eyes, but I count it as a victory.

The cabin feels smaller with him in it. His presence seems to fill the space, making me hyper-aware of where he is. When he moves to add another log to the fire, I track his progress, noting how his shirt stretches across his back.

I shouldn't find him attractive. He's nothing like the polished men my mother would approve of. Nothing like Bradley with his perfect teeth and manicured hands. Slate is all rough edges and scowls, with calloused palms and stubble on his jaw.

Yet every time he moves, my eyes follow him. Every time he speaks, that deep voice sends heat through my core.

"Need help?" he asks gruffly, nodding toward the boiling water.

"Sure. You can set the table if you want."

He moves with surprising grace, finding plates, glasses, and utensils without asking. I add pasta to the water and stir the sauce, trying to ignore how domestic this feels.

"So," I say, "how long have you been a trucker?"

"Fifteen years." He places plates on the small dining table by the window.

"Do you like it?"

He considers the question seriously. "Most days. Freedom of the open road. No boss looking over my shoulder. Different view every day." He pauses. "Some days it gets lonely."

This small admission feels like a gift. "I can imagine. All those miles with just your thoughts for company."

"Better than fake conversation." He gives me a pointed look that makes me laugh.

"Fair enough. But this doesn't count as fake conversation, does it? I'm genuinely curious."

Something shifts in his expression. "No, this isn't fake."

We sit across from each other, the storm providing background music to our meal. I'm suddenly conscious of my table manners, wondering why I care what this grumpy trucker thinks of how I twirl pasta.

"So what's your story?" he asks unexpectedly. "What brings a... woman like you up to a cabin alone?"

"A woman like me?" I raise an eyebrow. "What exactly does that mean?"

He doesn't back down. "Someone who clearly comes from money. Someone used to cities and comfort, not mountain roads and isolation."

"Maybe I wanted a change from all that. Maybe I'm tired of being 'someone like me.'"

His blue eyes study me, and I force myself not to squirm under his gaze. "Running from something?" he asks.

"Isn't everyone?" I counter, then sigh. "I broke up with my boyfriend a few weeks ago. Bradley. We'd been together for two years, and everyone expected us to get married. It was all very... appropriate."

"But?"

"But it felt like putting on clothes someone else picked out.

They fit, technically, but never quite right.

" I look down at my plate. "Everything in my life has been chosen for me—where I live, where I work, who I date.

I just wanted to make one decision for myself, even if it's just where to spend my vacation. "

His expression softens. "That's why you're so excited about a run-down truck stop and mediocre pie?"

I laugh. "Hey, that pie was delicious!"

"It was decent," he concedes, almost smiling.

"Anyway, yes. This is all gloriously different from my usual life, even with the storm and the unexpected house guest."

Something like understanding passes between us, and for a moment, the space between our worlds doesn't seem quite so vast.

A crack of thunder breaks the moment, and the lights flicker before steadying again.

"Should we be worried about that?" I ask.

"Cabin probably has a generator if the power goes out." He eyes the storm. "This looks like it might be settling in for the night."

"Well, there are worse places to be stranded," I say. "And worse company."

His eyes meet mine, sending heat racing through me. "That so?"

"You're not as grumpy as you pretend to be," I say boldly.

"And you're not as spoiled as I expected."

I grin. "Careful, that almost sounded like a compliment."

He shrugs, but there's warmth in his eyes that wasn't there before.

As I clean up after our meal, I'm achingly aware of him moving around, examining bookshelves, adding wood to the fire. The lights flicker again and then go out completely, leaving only the fireplace glow.

"Guess I was wrong about the generator," Slate's voice comes from near the fire.

"There should be candles somewhere," I say, carefully making my way from the kitchen. "The rental listing mentioned emergency supplies."

I misjudge the distance and bump right into his solid chest. His hands come up to steady me, gripping my upper arms. The contact sends a jolt through me.

"Careful," he murmurs, his voice deeper in the dimness. His hands are warm through my sweater—hands that work for a living, not just for show.

I should step back. I should thank him and move away. Instead, I stay perfectly still, looking up at his shadowed face in the firelight.

"Slate," I whisper.

His grip tightens slightly, and I hear his breath catch. For one electric moment, I think he might pull me closer.

Then he releases me, stepping back. "Let's find those candles."

The spell breaks, but something remains—a tension in the air between us that wasn't there before. As we search for emergency supplies, carefully maintaining distance, I can't help but wonder what would have happened if he hadn't let go.