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I’m still reeling when I check into the small Airbnb I rented for the week.

It’s the same cabin as last year—modern, cozy, and touched with a kind of quiet magic.

There’s a personal jacuzzi tub, soft lighting, and the scent of pine lingering just outside the windows.

Stone and wood blend with nature photos and wild greenery.

The mushroom and leaf-print pillows on the warm orange couch make me miss fall—and somehow, him.

I drop onto the couch with a heavy sigh and stare at the ceiling.

Did I misread everything? Am I just some girl who turned a single act of kindness into something it never was?

Six years of writing to him. Six years of pouring pieces of myself into those letters, into photographs and words I thought might mean something. And he looked at me like I was a problem. Like I was a mistake.

I cover my face with one of the pillows, breathing into the soft cotton to muffle the ache in my chest. Then I turn onto my side and try to breathe past the lump in my throat.

I should let it go. He wants me to let it go. That much was obvious.

Still… the letter I left today feels heavier than the rest. And the way he walked away—no words, no kindness, just distance—cut deeper than I thought it would.

Cause he’s not a stranger. He’s the man I’ve written to every year for six years.

The man I thought I mattered to, even if just in some quiet, private corner of his life.

But maybe I don’t. Maybe I never did.

And I’ve been rejected before, this is nothing new to me.

I’m too positive, too bubbly, too friendly with other guys, I’ve heard it all.

This won’t get me down. I’ll just stop writing the letters so he isn’t bothered.

Even if that momentary look in his gaze, the way his shoulders dropped before tensing, the mix of awe and surprise that flitted across his face before he shut down entirely lingers.

It’s still in my head as I unpack, as I open the windows to invite in the scent of the day, as I get through a shower to ease my muscles after the long drive.

Trying to push him out of my mind, I slip into the routine I’ve built for myself whenever I come here. Familiar steps. Predictable comfort.

I head to the little grocery store, pick up the usual essentials, and make my way back to the cabin. I cook something simple, close the windows as a storm begins to roll in, then eat in silence while the rain taps against the glass.

It’s calm. Measured. A soft, ordinary evening—exactly what I needed after the chaos of today.

As I get into bed after a wonderful and refreshing soak in the tub, I promise to clear my mind of the grumpy man who denied me his name as well as his time.

It’s a door closed, even if I’d rather take a crowbar to it and pry it open.

I won’t linger where I’m not wanted and I won’t treat anyone else the way I wouldn’t want to be treated.

**

The next afternoon, I head into town and check out some of the stores. I love the antique stores and the mom and pop shops that feel cozy and warm with all the brightness and tenderness of a family business.

While I’m debating between treating myself to some homemade cookies or a bar of honey and goat milk soap, I hear a snort from behind me.

“All these tourists,” one man mutters, just loud enough to carry. “That’s how you know it’s summer. They roll in like birds—bright clothes, fat wallets, no clue what they’re doing.”

“Spending money like they own the place,” another adds. “Making demands, snapping photos, pretending they belong here.”

I adjust my braid behind my ear and pull my hair forward over my shoulders, trying to stay grounded. Let it roll off your back, Nora. Like water off a duck. Their bad day doesn’t get to ruin yours.

But then it shifts—just enough to land like a blow.

“Bet she can’t even light a fire without a YouTube video.”

“Little city girls thinking the woods are some kind of fairy tale. Like we don’t have to clean up after them when they get lost.”

My fingers tighten around the soap. I keep my head down, pretend not to hear. But the message is clear—they see me. And they don’t want me here.

When I decide to grab both the soap and the cookies, I turn around—head high, unashamed of my presence. But something’s off. The two men are silent now. Too silent. And that’s when I notice the shift in the air.

There’s a bear of a man standing beside me.

Calder .

The two men stiffen under his gaze, and one clears his throat awkwardly. “Calder. Didn’t see you there.”

“Now you do,” he replies, his voice low and gruff—so familiar it curls straight down my spine.

He’s here.

Again.

And just like before, he’s standing between me and the fire.

My body flushes, my heart melts, and suddenly my lungs feel like they’re wrapped in steel. If this is what people mean by butterflies, they’ve got it wrong. This is closer to a free fall. Or maybe a slow, steady swoon I can’t fight off.

“Come on,” the second man mutters, flicking a glance at me. “You don’t like the tourists either.”

Calder shifts forward, placing himself directly between me and their stares. Like a shield.

“I don’t like disrespect,” he says, calm but firm. “You planning on being a problem?”

Silence.

No apology. No defense. Just two men suddenly realizing they’ve picked the wrong moment—and the wrong woman.

When Calder finally steps back, they’re gone. No fuss. No fight. Just gone.

I exhale slowly.

“Thank you,” I say, softer than I mean to.

He pauses, starts to look over his shoulder, then nods without making eye contact before heading to the register. I get a few more things, then checkout. By the time I look for him, he’s gone.

Because he’s just that kind of guy. The guy that does the saving and doesn’t want a ‘thank you’. He’d rather disappear and doesn’t realize how much better that makes it. He’s selfless, which makes him even more attractive.

“I just need to get my mind off him,” I decide as I walk back to the cabin. It’s only about half a mile and two blocks, and some fresh air will do me good. “I just need to throw myself into things where he won’t be involved.”

Even if I can’t help but think about his big arms wrapped around me, his panting breaths fanning against my ear, the soft grunts that had echoed over the crackling of the flames as he carried me. I bite my bottom lip.

Wouldn’t that be better on top of me?

That’s kind of how my friends have described having sex – or at least with the good stories. There’s panting, groaning, a sexy man’s arms wrapped around them as their hips grind and their mouths wander.

Would he taste like sandalwood, the same as I remember? Would he smell like pine if he found me right after work? Maybe some combination of the two that would make it impossible for me to focus on anything but breathing him in and tasting him?

I’d kiss every scar on his body if he let me. Chase away whatever chill haunts him with my mouth, with my care, with everything I have to give.

If I’m going to lose my virginity to anyone, it should be a man like him—strong, steady, selfless. Protective. Someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.

And there’s no doubt in my mind Calder does. Not with the way he moves. Not with that quiet intensity in his eyes. Not with that body.

A shiver rolls down my spine at the thought, and I force myself to shake it off.

No. Those are thoughts for never.

I’ll take my things back to the cabin, lose myself in the trails, check out some scenic spots, maybe find a museum or two. Anything to keep me grounded.

Because I won’t throw myself at a man who only catches me when he’s in rescue mode.

Even if all I want is to feel his arms around me again.