four
Alex
I close the guest room door behind me, trying to ignore the lingering smokey scent of her hair. My cabin has never felt so small, the walls closing in with her presence. What was I thinking, bringing her here?
I head to my workshop, needing distance. The space has always been my sanctuary. I keep my tools organized on pegboards, equipment neatly stored, everything in its place. Here, I can focus on maintaining gear that keeps people safe. Keeps me safe.
But today, even surrounded by familiar order, my mind strays to the young woman in my guest room. The way she looked at me when I mentioned her romance novels. That defiant tilt of her chin mixed with vulnerability. She's twenty-two, for god's sake. Barely more than a kid.
I pick up a length of climbing rope, inspecting it for wear—a mindless task that usually centers me. Today, it's not working. My thoughts keep circling back to her. Sheryl. The sound of her name in my head is unwelcome.
The security panel on the wall shows all green indicators. No fire alerts. Everything safe and controlled, exactly as I've designed it.
A while later, I check my watch. Time for her oxygen levels again. Medical necessity. That's all this is.
When I knock on her door, there's no answer. A spike of alarm sends me quickly through the house, fear rising until I find her in the kitchen, staring confusedly at my coffee maker.
"Oh!" She jumps when she notices me. "Sorry. I needed caffeine for writing, but your coffee machine looks like it belongs on a spaceship."
Relief turns quickly to irritation. "You should be resting."
"I've rested enough. I need to work." She gestures to her laptop on the counter. "My publisher isn't going to extend my deadline just because I nearly burned to death."
The casual way she references what happened makes my jaw clench. "That's not funny."
"Gallows humor. How else am I supposed to process nearly becoming a tragic headline?" Her voice softens. "Sorry. I cope with inappropriateness."
I move to the coffee maker, pressing buttons with practiced efficiency. "I need to check your oxygen levels."
She extends her finger without comment, watching as I clip the device in place. 96%. Better than before.
"All good." I remove the oximeter, careful not to let our skin touch. "Coffee will be ready in two minutes."
"Thank you." She leans against the counter, studying me with those writer's eyes that seem to catalogue every detail. "Can I ask you something?"
I brace myself for questions about fire safety, about why my entire house seems designed to prevent disaster.
Instead, she asks, "Why did you offer to let me stay?"
The question catches me off guard. I could give the professional answer—medical training, sense of duty. Instead, I find myself saying, "You needed help."
"Lots of people need help. You don't bring them all home."
"No, I don't." I pour coffee into two mugs, buying time. "Cream or sugar?"
"Both, please. Lots."
I grimace as I slide the doctored coffee toward her, taking my own black. "The festival has the town full. There weren't other options."
She wraps slender fingers around the mug, looking unconvinced. "Thank you, anyway. I promise I'll be out of your hair tomorrow."
"It's fine." The words come out gruffer than intended.
We drink in silence, the quiet interrupted only by the soft ping of her email notifications. She frowns at her screen.
"Bad news?" I ask, despite myself.
"My agent. She's sympathetic about the fire but still needs chapters by next week." She sighs. "I lost important scenes in the fire. Obviously, I didn’t save them. I'm trying to recreate them, but it's not the same."
"What's your book about?" The question surprises us both.
Her cheeks flush pink. "It's a romance. About a woman who goes to a remote place to find herself and instead finds..." She trails off.
"Finds what?" I'm genuinely curious now.
"Someone unexpected. Someone who challenges her." Her eyes meet mine briefly before darting away. "It's silly, I know."
"I don't think so." The words come out softer than intended.
She looks up, surprise evident. "Most people dismiss romance novels. Especially men."
"I've never understood why. People risk their lives for love all the time. I've seen it in rescue work."
Something shifts in her expression—interest, maybe. "That's... not what I expected you to say."
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Something dismissive about bodice-rippers or Fabio covers."
I allow myself a small smile. "I try not to have opinions on things I know nothing about."
"That's remarkably rare." She returns the smile, and something tightens in my chest.
"I should let you work." I take my coffee and retreat, feeling distinctly like I'm running away.
Hours later, I find her still typing, curled up in the guest room's reading chair, brow furrowed in concentration.
I stand in the doorway longer than I should, watching her work.
There's something captivating about her focus and the way she bites her lower lip, the small furrow between her brows, how she occasionally mouths dialogue to herself.
I knock on the doorframe, breaking her concentration. "Dinner," I say. "You should eat."
She blinks, surfacing from whatever world she's been creating. "What time is it?"
"Seven-thirty."
"Already?" She stretches, and I look away from the sliver of skin revealed as her shirt rides up. "I lost track."
"Your writing going well?"
"Actually, yes." She seems surprised by this. "Sometimes a change of environment helps. Different energy."
In the kitchen, I heat the stew I prepared earlier. She hovers nearby, watching me move around the space.
"Do you cook? Or is it all military-grade rations and protein bars?" she asks.
The question makes me almost smile. "I cook. Living alone, you learn or you starve."
"Or you order takeout," she counters. "That's my usual approach in the city."
"Not many delivery options up here."
"No, I imagine not." She smiles. "Thank you for dinner. And for checking on me. And for everything, really."
I nod, uncomfortable with gratitude. "Sit. It's ready."
We eat at the kitchen island, the silence surprisingly comfortable. She's less talkative now, fatigue from the day's events catching up with her. I should be relieved by the quiet, but instead, I find myself wanting to know more.
"Have you always written romance?" I ask.
She seems startled by my continued interest. "Since college. I published my first novel at twenty-one."
"That's impressive."
"It did well, surprisingly. The second one..." She makes a face. "Not so much. This one needs to succeed or my publishing career might be over before it really begins."
"High stakes."
"Hence the cabin retreat. No distractions, limited internet, just writing time." She laughs without humor. “I’m grateful I can work here, too.”
After dinner, I check her vitals one last time before bed. Her pulse is slightly elevated, but still within normal range.
"Everything okay?" I ask, removing the oximeter from her finger.
"Just processing everything." She sits on the edge of the guest bed, looking small against the dark blue comforter. "It's been a day."
"Get some sleep. The doctor will call in the morning."
I turn to leave, but her voice stops me. "Alex? Why are you so careful about fire?"
The question freezes me in place. I should walk out. Change the subject. Maintain the distance I've cultivated for years.
Instead, I find myself saying, "Experience. Bad experience." I can't bring myself to say more, not yet, but it's more than I've offered anyone in a long time.
She reads between the lines, her expression softening. "I'm sorry."
I nod once, uncomfortable with her compassion. "Your oxygen levels are good. You should sleep."
But as I reach the door, she speaks again. "You’re a good person, Alex. You care so much you've built a life around protecting others."
I turn back, struck by her words and the certainty behind them. She's looking at me with an expression that makes my pulse quicken.
"You don't know me," I say.
"I know enough." She stands, crossing the room. "I know you saved my life. I know you brought me into your home. I know you check my oxygen levels even though we both know I'm fine."
She's too close. Too young. Too perceptive. I should step back, maintain the professional distance this arrangement requires.
Instead, I find myself noticing details I have no business observing: the curve of her lower lip, the light freckles across her nose, the way her pulse visibly flutters at the base of her throat.
"I write about men like you," she whispers, her confidence faltering slightly. "Strong, protective. Haunted. But I've never actually..." She stops, uncertainty replacing her earlier boldness. Her hands disappear into her oversized sleeves and the curvy author suddenly looks meek again.
I know I should end this, whatever it is. She's twenty-two. I'm forty. She's in my care. Every rational thought tells me to step back, to restore appropriate boundaries.
But when her hand tentatively touches my chest, feeling the rapid beat of my heart beneath my shirt, rationality burns away like kindling.
"I'm not one of your characters," I warn, my voice rough.
"No," she agrees. "You're real ."
The moment stretches between us, taut with possibility. My carefully constructed rules, my defenses, my professional distance—all of it crumbling under the weight of something I haven't felt in years. Maybe ever.
“Goodnight, Sheryl.”