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Lila

I wake in stages, consciousness returning in gentle waves rather than the sharp jolt I expect. First comes the warmth—deep, soul-reaching warmth that makes me want to burrow further into its source. Then the softness around me, nothing like the cold, wet forest floor where I thought I'd die. The crackling sound of a fire. The scent of something rich and savory that makes my empty stomach clench. And finally, the weight of someone's gaze on my face, so intense I feel it before I even open my eyes.

When I do, the world is golden and blurry. Firelight dances across rough-hewn walls. I blink, trying to bring things into focus. I'm on a bed—a real bed with a quilt pulled up to my chin. My body feels heavy, like I've slept for days, but the bone-deep chill is gone.

I turn my head, and that's when I see him.

He sits in a chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. Waiting. Watching. He's so large he makes the sturdy wooden chair look like doll furniture. Broad shoulders stretch the fabric of a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to expose forearms corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair. His face is all angles and shadows—sharp cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass, straight nose, and brows that furrow slightly when our eyes meet.

Those eyes. Even in the dim cabin light, they burn blue and bright. Wild. The same eyes I glimpsed before darkness took me.

"You're awake." His voice is deep, roughened at the edges like he doesn't use it much. "How do you feel?"

The question is simple, but the intensity with which he asks it makes it feel profound. Like my answer matters more than anything in the world.

"Alive," I croak, my throat raw. "Thanks to you."

Something shifts in his expression—a softening around those fierce eyes, a slight relaxation of his set jaw. "You were half-frozen when I found you. Lucky you made it here."

I try to sit up and realize two things at once: I'm no longer wearing my clothes, and my body aches in places I didn't know could ache. A flush spreads across my cheeks as I clutch the quilt tighter.

"Your clothes were soaked through," he says, reading my thoughts. "Had to get you dry and warm. You're wearing one of my shirts." A pause. "Nothing else would fit."

I glance down at myself, seeing the sleeve of a flannel shirt peeking out from beneath the quilt. The collar dwarfs my neck, slipping off one shoulder. The hem probably reaches mid-thigh. It smells like him—pine and woodsmoke and something deeper, more primal.

"Thank you," I say, because what else can you say to the stranger who saved your life and undressed you while you were unconscious? "I'm Lila, by the way."

"Beau." He doesn't offer a last name, and something tells me not to ask. "You must be hungry."

As if on cue, my stomach growls loudly enough for both of us to hear. Heat floods my face again, but Beau's mouth quirks up at one corner—not quite a smile, but close.

"I'll get you something."

He rises to his full height, and I'm struck again by his sheer size. He must be well over six feet, with the build of a man who works with his body, not behind a desk. He moves to a small kitchen area set against the far wall—just a woodstove, a sink with a pump handle, and a few cabinets. The entire cabin is one large room with a partially closed-off area I assume is a bathroom. It's primitive but well-built and meticulously clean.

"How long was I out?" I ask, testing my voice. It comes out stronger this time.

"About eighteen hours." Beau stirs something in a pot on the stove. "Storm's still going, but not as bad as yesterday."

Eighteen hours. I've been unconscious for eighteen hours in a stranger's cabin. That should terrify me. Instead, I feel a strange, disorienting calm.

"Where exactly am I? I was hiking the north trail at Riverside Park when the storm hit. I must have gotten turned around..."

"You're about fifteen miles from the nearest marked trail. These mountains aren't part of any park." He ladles whatever he's cooking into a bowl. "Not many people come out here. That's why I'm here."

The statement hangs in the air, heavy with implication. He's here because he doesn't want to be found. And I stumbled right into his sanctuary.

"I'm sorry," I say. "For intruding."

Beau turns, bowl in hand, and his gaze pins me to the bed. "Don't be."

He returns to the chair beside me, sitting down with the bowl. Steam rises from what looks like a thick stew, the aroma making my mouth water. I try to take it from him, but he shakes his head.

"Let me," he says. "You're still weak."

Before I can protest, he dips a spoon into the stew and brings it to my lips. The gesture is so intimate, so unexpected, that I freeze. His eyes hold mine, unwavering and unreadable.

"Open," he murmurs, and my lips part on command.

The stew is rich—venison, I think, with wild mushrooms and root vegetables. It's the most delicious thing I've ever tasted, or maybe that's just the hunger talking. Either way, I can't contain the small sound of pleasure that escapes me.

Something flares in Beau's eyes. His hand remains steady, but his knuckles whiten around the spoon. He dips it back into the bowl and brings it to my mouth again, watching intently as my lips close around it.

"Good?" he asks, voice low and rough.

I nod, unable to look away from his face. There's a scar bisecting his left eyebrow, another at the corner of his mouth. His dark hair is too long, curling at the nape of his neck and falling across his forehead when he leans forward. He hasn't shaved in days, maybe weeks, the stubble along his jaw nearly a beard. He looks untamed. Dangerous.

And yet, his hands are gentle as he feeds me, careful not to spill a drop.

"Why were you out in the storm?" he asks between spoonfuls. "Riverside Park is a day hike. You weren't equipped for overnight."

I swallow, heat creeping up my neck at how foolish I must seem to him. "I wasn't planning on staying out. I just wanted some air, some space to think. When the storm started, I thought I could make it back to the trailhead, but..." I trail off, embarrassed. "I made a stupid mistake."

Beau's expression softens fractionally. "Everyone makes mistakes. Not everyone survives them."

His bluntness is oddly comforting. No platitudes, no reassurances that it wasn't that bad. Just acknowledgment of the truth—I nearly died out there.

"What about you?" I ask, as he offers another spoonful. "Do you live here year-round? All alone?"

Something shutters in his face, but he answers. "Five years now. And yes, alone."

"Why?"

The question slips out before I can stop it. Too personal, too direct. But instead of shutting down completely, Beau's mouth quirks again in that almost-smile.

"Maybe for the same reason you wanted air and space to think." He sets the now-empty bowl aside. "Some people need more silence than others."

I nod, understanding too well the need to escape. Isn't that why I was in those woods to begin with? Running from a life that felt increasingly hollow?

"Thank you," I say again. "For saving me. For feeding me."

"Don't need thanks for doing what needed to be done." His gaze drops to my exposed shoulder where his shirt has slipped again, lingers there. My skin prickles with awareness.

He reaches out suddenly, brushing a strand of hair from my face. The contact is brief, but it sends a jolt through me, like touching a live wire. His fingers are calloused but warm, steady but somehow hesitant, as if he's forgotten how to touch another person.

"You should rest more," he says, voice dropping to a near whisper. "Your body's been through hell."

I should feel nervous, being here alone with this large, intense stranger. I should be planning my exit strategy, figuring out how soon I can leave. Instead, I find myself searching his face, trying to understand the hunger I see there—hunger that doesn't seem entirely about desire, but something deeper. Something almost like recognition.

"Will you stay?" I ask, surprising myself. "I mean, nearby? While I sleep?"

Beau's eyes darken. "I'm not going anywhere, little dove."

The endearment catches me off guard. So does the possessive note in his voice, the way his hand curls around the edge of the bed, inches from my blanketed thigh.

As I slide back down under the quilt, his gaze never leaves my face. It's like being wrapped in something tangible, that look. Something that warms me from the inside out, different from the fire, different from the blankets.

I should be unnerved by his attention, his size, his isolation. I should be counting the hours until the storm breaks and I can return to civilization.

Instead, as sleep pulls me under again, a single thought drifts through my mind: Why does this feel like home?

And why, God help me, do I want it to be?