Page 14

EMMY

I don’t ask for a ride. Not because I don’t want to, but because asking feels like too much. Like tempting fate. Like putting weight on something soft and beautiful before I’ve earned the right to lean on it.

So I pack a small bag—some essentials, some dog food, my notebook—and I leash the dogs.

I tell myself it’s good for them. That the fresh air will help calm my nerves. Cleo walks ahead, alert and steady. Luca stays close, every now and then brushing against my leg like he knows something in me is bracing.

It’s not far. Two kilometers, maybe. Just enough to leave me flushed and breathless when I reach the end of the gravel trail. Just enough to make me feel small, showing up on foot. The ridge road is quiet this time of evening, touched in gold where the last of the sun slips between trees.

But just before I reach the turnoff to Cal’s gravel drive, I see it.

A black sedan.

Tires crunching too slow over the road, like it doesn’t belong. The windows are tinted so dark I can’t see a thing inside.

And the thing that sticks in my throat: no plates. Just the dull metal frame where numbers should be. It creeps past the turnoff, heading farther down the ridge.

I stop for a second. My heart does a slow, uncertain beat. Luca noses my hand like he feels the change in me, and I blink from my daze to reach for my phone. Snap a photo before it disappears around the bend. Because something in me knows… It’s out of place. And not just a little.

I don’t know if I should tell Cal. I don’t want to sound dramatic. I don’t want to take something soft and fill it with shadows.

So I press forward. Toward the porch light.

When I round the final curve and Cal’s cabin comes into view, there’s a light on at the window. And the porch light, just like he said.

Heart racing and black sedan forgotten, I knock. Only once. Then I wait, hand tightening around Luca’s leash.

The door opens.

And Cal goes still.

For a beat, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

Just looks at me—really looks—eyes dark and steady as they take in the shape of me on his porch.

The bag slung over one shoulder. Luca pressed close to my thigh.

Cleo sitting sentry by my feet. The cold still clings to my lungs from the walk, cheeks flushed, hair wind-tangled.

His jaw shifts. Something quiet and contained moves across his face, like a string drawn too tight inside him finally gives way.

“You walked?”

I nod, breathing shallow. “It’s not far. I didn’t want to bother you.”

His brow pulls. Not angry. Not even frustrated. Just… something like ache.

“Didn’t have a ride?”

I hesitate. Just long enough for him to see too much.

He steps forward, his voice dropping low. “Little one.”

God. That voice. Those two words.

It slips under my skin like a warm hand at the base of my spine. Makes my breath catch, makes my knees feel a little less certain.

“You could’ve called me. I would’ve been there in five minutes. Dogs and all.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I didn’t want to ruin it…”

And that breaks him. I can see it—something in his eyes softening and sharpening all at once. He reaches out, fingers grazing just under my chin, tilting it with the lightest touch.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he says, voice rough. “You showed up. That’s all I’ll ever need.”

His thumb lingers, then withdraws only enough to press the door open wider. His next words come out quieter. Steadier.

“Don’t walk at night by yourself again. That’s a rule.”

The words settle over me like a weighted blanket. Firm. Unquestionable. But not suffocating. Grounding. Like someone building a gate—not to keep me out, but to let me rest behind it.

I step inside on a breath, the warmth of the cabin brushing my skin like a promise. The kind you don’t know how to believe in yet, but want to.

Cal closes the door behind me, the quiet sound of the latch sliding into place grounding me more than it should. I drop my bag gently to the side and kneel to unclip the dogs’ leashes.

My fingers slip, just once. Barely noticeable. But enough for someone really watching to catch it.

And Cal is always paying attention.

He doesn’t say a word. Just crouches nearby, letting Luca sniff his hand before giving him a slow, reassuring stroke down his back. Then to Cleo, who eyes him like she’s judging his worth before she allows his palm to settle on her delicate little frame.

“You’re alright,” he murmurs, and I don’t know if he’s talking to them or me.

Probably both.

I stand again, brushing my palms on my thighs, trying to smooth the tremble still clinging to them.

“Are you sure you don’t mind the hair?” I ask, glancing away almost immediately.

My fingers twist in the hem of my sweater, a habit I thought I’d broken.

I can’t quite meet his eyes. I ask, already glancing around.

“I can vacuum before I leave—or I brought a sheet if you’d rather I cover the couch first—”

“Hey.” His voice is soft but firm, meant to interrupt not just my words, but the spiral they’re riding in on. “This is exactly how I pictured tonight.”

He glances at the dogs—Cleo already circling near the hearth, Luca curling on the rug like he owns it—and then Cal's eyes find mine again.

“All three of you.”

My knees go a little weak. Just a flicker. Like something inside me goes soft all at once. It takes me a second to breathe.

All three of you.

Because I wasn’t expecting that. Not really. Not in the real way—the way that wraps around something hollow inside me and holds it still. Like he meant it. Like he’s not just tolerating my mess, my life, the baggage that comes with me... but inviting it. Choosing it.

Choosing me.

My throat aches with the sudden threat of tears, and I blink hard, pretending to glance toward the fire so he won’t see the way my eyes shine.

“I didn’t want to assume…” I say quietly. “I know it’s a lot. The hair, the noise sometimes. And I didn’t know if Cleo would warm up to you. She’s not always—”

“She’s already curled up next to the fire,” Cal says simply, stepping in just close enough to reach me without crowding. “She’s fine. And Luca’s glued to your side like he’s worried you’ll float away.”

His gaze holds me still. Warm, unwavering. “I’m not worried about a little dog hair.”

I try to laugh, but it catches on something softer. “You say that now…”

“I’ll say it tomorrow, too,” he murmurs. “And the day after that.”

That’s when I break. Just a little.

Not enough for tears—but enough to look down at my hands again, still faintly trembling from the cold and the walk and the ache of being wanted. My voice wavers, quiet with uncertainty I don’t know how to hide.

“You really don’t mind?”

Cal doesn’t answer right away. He reaches past me instead, fingers brushing the edge of my bag where it rests by the door. Then his eyes come back to mine.

“I mind you thinking you’d have to ask.”

A tight breath stirs in my chest, and I blink hard, trying to keep the edges from spilling over.

It’s not just what he says, but how he says it.

As if it should’ve been obvious. Like being wanted isn’t conditional here.

Not with him. I don’t cry, but something inside me quiets, held together by the truth in his voice.

He doesn’t rush me.

Just waits, one hand brushing against my back in that barely-there way that says you’re safe now, little one. You’re here.

The dogs pad ahead like they belong already; Luca with his careful perimeter sweep, Cleo making a slow circle before settling again by the hearth. And I take a breath that feels fuller than the ones before. Like the tension has stepped back for once, letting my breath settle into something real.

Cal steps into the kitchen and I follow, my steps quiet, cautious, curious.

And then I see it.

The cabin is simple, but it’s thoughtful.

Modern where it counts, rustic and comforting where it feels right.

Like everything here was chosen, not just for function but for comfort.

For steadiness. The kind of space someone builds with his own hands and heart.

Not just to live in, either, but maybe to shelter someone else.

It feels like him. Quiet. Solid. Protective.

Every corner holds intention. The thick pine beams stretch overhead like the bones of something ancient and good, and the floor beneath my feet is worn smooth in places, rich with warmth from the firelight.

The windows are deep-set, trimmed in dark wood, with the kind of thick curtains you know would block out any storm.

There’s a sturdy table tucked near the kitchen nook—but the centerpiece catches me: a small, hand-carved bowl, filled with smooth river stones and bits of driftwood. Like someone arranged a piece of the wild inside something still.

The walls aren’t bare. Not cluttered either, but lived-in. A few photographs. Framed topographic maps. A row of hooks holding everything from a canvas field coat to a dog leash that isn’t mine.

And the kitchen—God. It’s not fancy, but it’s real. Cast iron pans hang above the stove, and the air smells faintly of seared meat and rosemary. There’s a soft hiss as he turns down the heat, and he looks over his shoulder at me.

“Come on,” he says. “You’re just in time.”

He’s already set the table.

Steak. Baked potatoes, split open with pats of butter melting slow into their centers. Roasted vegetables, edges kissed golden. A small pitcher of gravy, like he wasn’t sure if I’d want it but wanted to be prepared.

I blink. “You made all this?”

He shrugs one shoulder, already plating. “Didn’t want to send you home hungry.”

I don’t tell him that I didn't think we'd get this far. That I didn’t think I’d be welcome to, once he saw the dogs, or the weariness in my eyes.

Something in me knows I was always welcome. I just didn’t believe it until now.

He glances toward the glasses then turns to open the fridge, voice low. “There’s wine if you want. Soda, juice, water. Up to you.”