"Yes, doctor." She salutes playfully, then sobers. "Seriously, though. Thank you for taking care of me. I know this isn't what you signed up for."
I reapply the bandage, trying not to notice the delicate bones beneath my rough hands, the softness of her skin.
"Wasn't going to leave you out there."
"No, you wouldn't," she says softly. "Because underneath all that gruff hermit exterior, you're a good man, Caleb McKenna."
Her words make me uncomfortable. I'm not good. I'm selfish, isolated by choice. I left behind responsibilities, connections, obligations. Ran from the world when it got too hard, too painful.
She doesn't know who I really am. What I've done. What I've failed to do.
I finish with her ankle and stand, needing distance. "Fire needs wood."
Outside, the night air is sharp with approaching autumn. Stars blanket the sky, so bright and clear they seem close enough to touch. This view—this peace—is why I stay. Why I chose this life.
At least, that's what I tell myself as I stack logs in my arms.
When I return, she's dozed off on the couch, head tilted back, book open on her lap. Ruby watches me from her spot at Lila's feet, as if daring me to wake her.
I set the wood down quietly and stand there, unable to look away. She's beautiful in the firelight, all soft curves and warm colors. Her dark hair falls across her cheek, and my fingers itch to brush it back.
This isn't just attraction. It's something deeper, more unsettling. It's recognition.
I shake the thought away and grab a blanket from the back of the couch. As I lay it over her, she stirs, eyes fluttering open.
"Sorry," she murmurs, voice thick with sleep. "Didn't mean to doze off."
"It's fine. Your body's healing." I tuck the blanket around her, a gesture more tender than anything I've done in years. "You should sleep."
"Mmm." Her eyes drift closed again. "Wake me if I'm in your way."
But she's not in my way. That's the problem. She fits here, in my space, in my routine. Like she belongs.
She falls back asleep almost immediately, her breathing deep and even. I add wood to the fire, then settle in the armchair across from her, telling myself I'm just making sure she's comfortable before moving her to the bedroom.
I don't mean to watch her sleep. Don't mean to notice how the firelight catches in her hair, how her face softens in rest, how one hand curls beneath her chin like a child's.
Don't mean to feel this tightness in my chest, this protective urge that goes beyond basic human decency.
I should wake her. Help her to bed. Sleep on the couch with Ruby like I have the past three nights.
Instead, I stay in the chair, watching over her in the quiet cabin. Letting myself imagine, just for a moment, what it would be like if she weren't leaving. If this weren't temporary.
If she were mine to protect, not just for a few stormy days, but for all the days to come.
It's a dangerous path for my mind to wander down. I've chosen my life for good reasons. Solitude is safer. Simpler. I don't need complications, don't want the mess of caring about someone who will inevitably leave.
Everyone leaves the mountain eventually. The wild isn't for most people—especially not bright, beautiful women from New York with friends and careers and lives waiting for them.
She makes a small sound in her sleep, something between a sigh and a murmur, and shifts beneath the blanket. Ruby adjusts, settling her head on Lila's feet with a contented huff.
I close my eyes, trying to remember what my cabin felt like before her. The silence I cherished. The routine I built. The perfect, empty solitude.
But all I can see behind my eyelids is her smile. All I can hear is her laugh, bright and unexpected in my quiet world.
All I can feel is this unwelcome certainty that when she leaves—and she will leave—she'll take something vital with her. Something I didn't know I had until she stumbled into my life.
And I'm not sure I'll be able to live without it once it's gone.
