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EMMY

I see him before he sees me.

At least, I think I do.

He’s standing on the porch of the cabin. Arms crossed, one boot propped on the step. The sight catches me off guard. Not because he moves—he doesn't—but because something about his stillness feels like a warning and a welcome all at once.

A ripple of curiosity stirs low in my belly, braided with a strange tightness in my chest.

Just a man. Watching the trail like it belongs to him.

Which, technically, it does.

The signs went up last summer.

PRIVATE PROPERTY.

NO TRESPASSING.

Professionally printed. Screwed into the trees with clean precision. Not sloppy. Not angry. Just absolute. Clear boundaries. No mistaking what they mean.

I hadn’t seen them right away.

An injury kept me away. Most of last summer blurred by in pain and waiting.

Days stretched long and quiet, dissolving into one another like ink left out in the weather.

I didn’t make it up the ridge at all, to the trail that was only ever used by me, carved out by time and the wheels of my dirt bike.

Until now.

I told myself it was temporary, that I’d be back the moment I could. But when you lose your only piece of freedom, even for a while, it makes everything else feel farther away.

So when I finally returned, I wasn’t expecting anything to have changed. Not up here. Not on my trail.

And the cabin—it’s new too.

Not some cobbled together hunting shelter or vacation spot. It’s solid. Intentional. Real log, stained dark like cedar after rain. Big windows that glint even in the overcast light. A wide, covered deck that wraps around the front like arms folded in.

Thick beams. Clean lines. It looks like it was built by someone who knew what they were doing. Someone who didn’t just want a view—they wanted shelter.

Solar panels stretch across nearly the entire roof, angled just right to catch every possible drop of sun. The chimney is steel. A woodpile stacked with mathematical precision.

No, this definitely isn’t a vacation spot.

It’s a homestead. A stronghold.

Whoever built it didn’t just plan to stay.

They planned to disappear.

Him.

He’s tall. Easily over six feet. Built like someone who knows how to end a fight before it begins—broad shoulders, long legs, a body that carries strength without needing to show it off.

His dark hair is long enough to brush the collar of his thermal, tousled like he pushed a hand through it hours ago and hasn’t bothered since.

But it’s the beard that gets me.

Short. Neat. Just enough to emphasize the sharp cut of his jaw.

And threaded through it—God—that silver. Just a touch. A suggestion. Like time’s marked him without softening him. Like life tried to wear him down and he only got sharper.

He’s older. Clearly.

Not too much.

Just enough.

Enough that it makes thirty feel young in a way I didn’t expect. Off-balance. Wrecked.

There’s a stillness in him that doesn’t feel empty; it feels deliberate. Heavy. Like he’s rooted. Like he’s not a man who chases. He waits. Watches. Decides.

His eyes are a kind of gray I’ve never seen before. Not cold. Just unreadable. Stormglass. Like you could drown in them if you weren’t careful—and maybe even if you were.

He doesn’t look like someone who’s hiding.

He looks like someone who’s done running.

I barely glance at him as I pass. My eyes stay forward, helmet down, heart slamming against my ribs like I’ve been caught doing something worse than trespassing—like I’ve been caught wanting. Wanting to be seen.

Wanting him to be the one seeing me.

I don’t look back.

I don’t stop.

I stay away for a week.

Longer than I want to admit.

I ride the long trail instead—the one with the steep climb and the switchbacks that make it feel more like a workout than the escape I mean for it to be.

I pretend it’s for the solitude. For the view.

But it’s not.

Every time I crest a ridge, I look west. Toward the cabin.

And every time, my chest aches in the silliest way, like I’m somehow missing something I was never supposed to find.

So when I finally take the familiar curve again this evening, I tell myself it’s just about the shortcut. Just about air in my lungs and dust on my boots.

Not about the man.

But he’s there.

Not on the porch this time, but in the gravel drive.

Closer.

Wearing another dark thermal, sleeves pushed to his forearms. That steady stance. Like he belongs to the land. Like the cabin rose around him, not the other way around.

He looks up the second he hears me. Doesn’t flinch, and doesn’t frown, either. Just lifts a hand—half-wave, half-stop—and the movement hits me like a gravity shift.

I stop the bike.

The Surron’s electric motor fades into silence beneath me.

I don’t cut the ignition.

My heart’s hammering again, just like before. Only harder now.

He walks a few steps closer, but slow. Measured. Like he knows not to spook something that’s already skittish.

“I’m sorry—I wasn’t trying to—well, I guess I am trespassing, but I’ve been using this trail for years and I didn’t think anyone was ever up here—”

He doesn’t interrupt with words.

Just lifts his hand again.

Still quiet. Still calm.

He doesn’t speak like I’m already wrong. It feels... safe. In a way I can’t name yet. Like the air around him is steadier than mine, and I’m being offered a corner of it just long enough to catch my breath.

Then, after he anchors his weight just a little more firmly:

“Take off your helmet.”

His voice is quiet, but there’s no mistaking the weight behind it. Not a command, but not something I could ignore, either.

He doesn’t move. Just watches me, steady as stone, his broad frame still and sure in a way that tells me everything I need to know about how he handles uncertainty. And how he expects me to handle his requests.

The words land low—soft, but grounding. Like a hand at the base of my spine, firm and patient.

It creates a lump in my throat anyway.

I hesitate, because the helmet is safety. Distance. If I take it off, he’ll see me.

Not just my face, but everything I don’t know how to hide.

My fingers hesitate at the strap, then move. I tell myself it’s fine, that it’s just a helmet, just politeness. But deep down, I know—it’s trust. A small, trembling offering I don’t fully understand, given before I can second-guess it.

Not because I’ve decided. Because he asked.

Because something in his tone makes not listening feel… wrong.

I undo the strap, lift it free.

My hair’s damp. My cheeks are flushed. My throat is dry as bone.

He doesn’t watch me like I’m trespassing.

Not like I’m trouble.

Just… something he wants to understand. A curiosity. A puzzle. A presence he doesn’t mind disturbing his peace.

Then he speaks again, his voice low. “You ride that trail a lot.”

His tone isn’t accusatory. It’s just a fact laid down like a stone.

An opening.

My voice is softer now. “Yeah. I do.”

I don’t say need. But it’s there. In the space between my words.

He nods once, thoughtful. Like he’s settling something in his mind.

“You can keep doing that. I don’t mind.”

Another pause.

“But if I see you out here after dark alone again...” his gaze hardens just slightly. “It’ll be a different conversation.”

His words flood me, warm and strange and almost too much, this duality of quiet mercy from a stranger, and the warm, unfamiliar thrill of being… seen.

Not glanced past or looked over. Not just tolerated... but noticed.

Marked.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t soften it.

After another breath to let it sink in, he adds: “You should stick to the main path when the sun dips. Things get tricky in the dark.”

It’s not a warning.

No, it’s something else… a rule. A line. A quiet kind of care I don’t know what to do with.

And I feel it again. That flutter deep in my chest.

Not just relief, not just surprise.

Because something in his voice sounds an awful lot like a door left open.

Not just an invitation to come back.

But a promise that if I do, I won’t leave untouched.

That once he lets me in…

I won’t be walking away the same.