Page 5

Hannah

The smell of honey and butter fills my kitchen, warm and sweet, as I pull the last batch of muffins from the oven. They’re golden brown, the tops just starting to crack, and I can’t help but feel a little proud. These are my best yet.

I set the tray on the counter and glance out the window toward the woods. Cameron’s cabin is out there, hidden somewhere in the trees. It feels strange, knowing he’s so close yet so far—like an untouchable force looming at the edge of my life.

My chest tightens as I remember the way he left yesterday, his broad shoulders disappearing around the farmhouse without a single word of explanation.

One moment, he’d been there, strong and steady, his presence as grounding as the earth beneath my feet.

And then he was gone, like smoke slipping through my fingers.

I don’t know what I expected when I asked why he keeps helping me. Answers, maybe. Honesty. But Cameron doesn’t seem to work that way. He’s like a locked door, and no matter how hard I knock, he won’t let me in.

Still, I can’t stop thinking about him.

With a sigh, I wipe my hands on a dish towel and start packing the muffins into a basket. It’s a flimsy excuse, baking these. I tell myself it’s a thank-you for fixing the fence, but deep down, I know it’s more than that. I want to see him. I want to understand him.

And maybe, just maybe, I want him to see me, too.

***

The woods are quiet as I follow the narrow path toward Cameron’s cabin, the late evening light filtering through the trees in soft golden beams. The air smells like pine and damp earth, and the occasional rustle of leaves reminds me I’m not alone out here.

The basket feels heavy in my hands, though it’s light enough to carry. It’s the weight of my nerves, I think, pressing down on me with every step.

What if he doesn’t want to see me?

The thought twists in my gut, but I push it aside. If Cameron doesn’t want me here, he’ll tell me. He’s never been shy about keeping his distance or speaking his mind.

When I finally reach his cabin, I stop at the edge of the clearing, my breath catching. It’s small and rustic, built from dark wood and nestled among the trees like it’s part of the forest itself. Smoke curls lazily from the chimney, and the faint glow of firelight spills through the window.

The sight of it—the sight of him—steadies me.

I walk up the steps to the porch and knock on the door, the sound louder than I expect in the stillness of the woods. For a moment, I hear nothing—no movement, no sound. And then I feel the heavy thud of footsteps before the door swings open.

Cameron stands there, filling the doorway, his gray eyes locking on to mine. He looks startled, like he wasn’t expecting anyone, and his hair is slightly mussed, as if he’s been running his hands through it.

“Hannah,” he says, his voice low and rough, like he hasn’t used it in hours.

“Hi,” I manage, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I, um… I brought you something.”

I hold up the basket, and his eyes flick to it before returning to mine. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, and I wonder if I’ve made a mistake.

But then he steps back, opening the door wider. “Come in.”

The cabin is warm and smells faintly of cedar and smoke. It’s small but cozy, with a stone fireplace crackling in the corner and shelves lined with books and tools. A half-finished wooden carving sits on the table, and my heart does a little flip when I recognize the outline of a bear.

I set the basket on the table, suddenly unsure of what to say. Cameron watches me, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable.

“I made muffins,” I say, the words tumbling out in a rush. “As a thank-you. For helping with the fence.”

His gaze softens, just barely, and he uncrosses his arms. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” I say, meeting his eyes.

For a moment, we just stand there, the air between us thick with unspoken words. Cameron’s presence is overwhelming in such a small space, his broad shoulders and quiet intensity filling every corner of the room.

“Do you want one?” I ask, breaking the silence.

He nods, and I hand him a muffin. He takes it carefully, like he’s not sure what to do with it, and I have to hold back a smile.

“It’s not going to bite you,” I tease.

He huffs out a laugh, the sound low and rough, and takes a bite. His eyes widen slightly, and for a moment, I think he might actually smile.

“These are good,” he says, his voice softer now.

“Thanks,” I say, feeling a strange warmth spread through me.

We eat in silence for a while, the crackle of the fire the only sound. It’s not awkward, exactly, but a tension permeates the air, a sense that we’re both waiting for something to happen.

Finally, I set my muffin down and look at him. “Cameron.”

He glances at me, his gray eyes wary.

“Why do you keep pulling away?” I ask, my voice quiet but steady.

He tenses, his jaw tightening, and I see the walls go up before he even speaks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do,” I say, leaning forward. “You keep showing up, helping me, and then disappearing like you can’t get away fast enough. Why?”

His hands curl into fists on the table, and for a moment, I think he’s going to shut me out again. But then he exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair.

“It’s complicated,” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Try me,” I say, my heart pounding.

He looks at me then, really looks at me, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes takes my breath away.

“You don’t understand,” he says, his voice rough. “It’s not that simple.”

“Then tell me,” I say, reaching across the table to touch his hand.

The moment my fingers brush his, he jerks back like I’ve burned him, and the pain that flashes across his face is almost unbearable.

“Hannah,” he says, my name coming out like a plea.

“Cameron,” I whisper, my chest aching.

For a moment, we just stare at each other, the air between us thick with tension. And then, suddenly, he’s moving.

He grabs my wrist, his touch firm but gentle, and pulls me to my feet. The heat of his hand seeps into my skin, and I feel the rough calluses on his fingers.

“Hannah,” he says again, his voice low and strained.

“Yes?” I whisper, my heart pounding so loudly I barely hear him.

His eyes lock on to mine, dark and stormy, and for a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. But then he lets go of my wrist and takes a step back, his expression conflicted.

“You should go,” he says, his voice tight.

I stare at him, my chest aching, but I nod. “Okay.”

I turn to leave, but before I reach the door, he grabs my hand again, his touch lingering this time.

“Hannah,” he says, his voice barely audible.

I turn back to him, and the look in his eyes steals the breath from my lungs.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice raw.

“For what?” I whisper.

“For being you,” he says, his grip on my hand tightening for just a moment before he lets go.

I leave the cabin, my heart heavy and my mind racing, the warmth of his touch still lingering on my skin.