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Hours pass in comfortable silence. I finish several chapters, doze a little, and am startled awake by the sound of the door opening. Ruby is on her feet immediately, tail wagging as Caleb returns.

He's carrying what looks like a perfectly crafted wooden crutch, the kind with a padded arm support and ergonomic handle.

"You made this?" I ask, incredulous. "From scratch? In two hours?"

"Had most of it done already," he says, setting it against the wall. "Just needed to adjust the height and add padding."

I stare at him, trying to reconcile this man who builds custom medical equipment in his spare time with the gruff hermit who barely speaks.

"You're full of surprises, Caleb McKenna."

He shrugs off his jacket, hanging it by the door. "Radio's out. Storm took down the tower. They're working on it, but it'll be a few days."

"Oh." I absorb this information. A few more days here, with him. I should be panicking. "That's... okay. I mean, if it's okay with you that I stay."

He moves to the stove, putting on water for coffee. "Not much choice. Can't exactly throw you back into the woods."

"Gee, when you put it like that, how can a girl not feel welcome?" My sarcasm earns me another almost-smile.

"Try the crutch," he says. "See if it fits."

I stand carefully, testing the crutch under my arm. It's perfect—the right height, sturdy but not too heavy, with a smooth wooden handle that fits my grip.

"This is incredible," I say, taking a few experimental steps. "Where did you learn to make things like this?"

"My grandfather. He built furniture." Caleb watches me with critical eyes, assessing my movement. "Too tall?"

"No, it's perfect." I make my way to the kitchen, delighted by my new mobility. "Seriously, this is better than anything I'd get at a medical supply store."

Something like pride flashes in his eyes before he looks away, busying himself with the coffee.

"Thank you," I say, softer now. "Really."

He nods once, accepting my gratitude without comment.

As the day progresses, we fall into a strange but comfortable routine. He works outside for a while, checking traps and bringing in firewood. I read, try out my crutch, and eventually ask if I can help with anything.

"You can chop these," he says, setting a pile of vegetables on the counter. "If you want."

It's the first time he's let me contribute, and I take the task seriously, chopping carrots and potatoes with meticulous care. It feels good to be useful, to be part of whatever he's creating.

By evening, the cabin is filled with the rich aroma of another stew, this one with rabbit meat. We eat in what's becoming our usual silence, but it's less tense than before. Almost comfortable.

After dinner, he builds up the fire and settles in the armchair with a book of his own. I return to the couch with my Jack London novel, and for hours, the only sounds are the turning of pages and the occasional pop from the fireplace.

It's the quietest day I've spent in years. Maybe ever. And strangely, it doesn't make me anxious or bored. It feels... restorative.

As night falls, I watch him over the top of my book. The firelight plays across his features, softening the hard lines of his face. He's so still when he reads, completely absorbed. I wonder what's going on behind those intense eyes.

"What?" he asks without looking up, catching me staring.

"Nothing," I say quickly. "Just... have you ever been in love?"

The question comes out of nowhere, surprising even me. It's too personal, too direct for our careful dance of polite distance.

He looks up slowly, expression unreadable. "Once."

I wasn't expecting an answer at all, let alone this one. "What happened?"