Chapter 5
Chapter Five
COOKIE
Morning hits differently up here.
I wake in Red's bed. My neck has a crick from sleeping curled on one side, somehow unable to spread out into his space. The sound of movement tells me he's already up, probably couldn’t wait to get away.
The smell of coffee pulls me upright. Through the window, weak winter light filters through heavy clouds. Still snowing, still trapped.
Red's already dressed, feeding logs to the fire, his movements careful and stiff. One night in that chair and he's moving like he's eighty.
"Morning." My voice comes out rough.
He glances over his shoulder. "Morning."
I slide out of bed and pad to the kitchen area, wrapping my arms around myself. The sweater falls to mid-thigh, but the cabin's cold edges still find my bare skin, nipping at it. "Please tell me that's coffee."
He pours a mug and holds it out to me. Our fingers brush when I take it, and that same electric current from yesterday shoots up my arm.
"Thanks." I wrap both hands around the warmth and take a sip. The coffee is still way too strong, but I'm getting used to it. That probably says something about how long I've been here.
"Did you sleep okay?" He watches me over the rim of his mug.
"Like a baby. You?"
“Yeah. Much better in the bed.”
__________
By afternoon, cabin fever sets in hard.
The storm hasn't let up. If anything, it's worse—the wind howling like it’s alive, the snow piling against the windows in drifts that reach halfway up the glass. We're running out of ways to avoid each other in six hundred square feet of cabin.
Red works at his bench in the corner, sanding a piece of wood with rhythmic strokes that somehow sound both meditative and aggressive. Wood shavings curl away from his hands, falling like snow.
I watch longer than I should.
"You can help if you want," he says without looking up.
I cross to the bench. "I don't know anything about woodworking."
"Do you know how to follow directions?"
"When I feel like it, yes."
His mouth twitches, and he hands me a piece of sandpaper. "Work with the grain. Not against it."
"That sounds like a metaphor."
"It's carpentry."
"Same thing."
He positions my hand on the wood, his palm warm and rough over my knuckles, guiding my pressure. "Like this. Do you feel it?"
I feel something, but it's not the wood grain. It's the way his breath ghosts across my temple, the way his thumb presses against the back of my hand, the solid wall of him behind me.
"Yeah," I manage. "I feel it."
He pulls away, leaving cold air where warmth was. "Keep going. I'll work on the other piece."
We fall into a comfortable rhythm—the rasp of sandpaper, the crackle of fire, Bear's occasional snore. It should feel claustrophobic. Instead, it feels like the opposite of lonely.
"Why woodworking?" I ask after a while.
He doesn't stop sanding. "I needed something to do with my hands. Something that made sense."
"Makes sense how?"
"You start with rough edges, then you make them smooth. You put pieces together that fit." He blows sawdust from his piece. "It's logical."
Unlike people, I hear. Unlike war. Unlike whatever he left behind when he came here.
"It's beautiful work," I say quietly. "The furniture. The cabin. All of it."
"It's just wood."
"It's more than that." I run my finger along the table's edge, feeling the smooth join where two pieces meet seamlessly. "It's permanent. Beautiful.”
He looks at me then, really looks at me, and something passes between us that has nothing to do with woodworking.
"Yeah," he says finally. "I guess it is."
________
By evening, my stomach is growling loud enough to embarrass both of us.
"I'll make something," Red offers, already moving toward the kitchen.
"You don't have to—"
"I'm hungry too."
He pulls out a pot, and ingredients appear quickly.
I hover, wanting to help but not knowing how to navigate his space. He moves like a man who's been cooking alone for years—no wasted motion or hesitation.
"Sit," he instructs without turning around.
"I can help—"
"Sit, Cookie."
I sit.
Twenty minutes later, he sets a bowl in front of me, and the smell alone makes my mouth water. It’s venison stew—rich, dark, and full of vegetables I didn't know he had.
"Did you hunt this yourself?" I take a bite and have to suppress a moan.
"Yeah, last month." He settles across from me with his own bowl. "The freezer's full of it."
"This is incredible."
"It's just stew."
"It's heaven in a bowl." I take another bite, watching him eat. He's got this way of existing—like he's saving energy for something that never comes. "Do you cook a lot?"
"I have to eat."
"That's not what I asked."
He looks up, spoon halfway to his mouth. "I cook. Yeah."
"Well," I say, "if you ever want to teach me to cook this, I'm an excellent student."
His eyes crinkle in the corners. "I'll keep that in mind."
We eat in comfortable silence, and I realize this is the first time today we haven't been actively avoiding each other. Bear's head appears in my lap, angling for scraps. The fire crackles, and outside, the storm rages, but in here, it feels almost…
Nice.
Until the lights snap out.
Total darkness swallows us whole. My chair screeches as I jolt up, heart hammering against my ribs. “Red?!”
"Easy." Red's voice cuts through the dark, all steady and calm. "It's just the power lines. It happens during storms all the time."
"Aren't you a little calm about this?" I’m not okay. I don’t like the dark at the best of times. My heart thuds.
"I’ve been through worse." I hear movement, the scratch of a match. Light blooms as he touches the flame to an oil lantern. "It'll be fine."
The lantern sends shadows across his face, softening his expression. He moves around the cabin checking windows, securing the door, building up the fire. Every movement speaks of someone who's prepared for exactly this, who is used to the unexpected.
"How long does it usually last?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
"It could be an hour; it could be tomorrow." He sets the lantern on the table between us. "We've got enough wood, food, and water. We're fine."
He says 'we' like it's natural. Like we're together in this. Which I suppose we are. The thought soothes me somewhat.
I sink back into my chair, watching firelight play across the cabin walls. The darkness presses close, intimate in a way electric light never is. Red settles across from me, and in the flickering glow, his eyes are a bright blue.
"So," I begin, because silence in the dark feels too charged. "What do mountain men do for entertainment when the power's out?"
"Sleep."
"Boring. What else?"
His mouth curves. "What do you suggest?"
Holy Christmas baubles!
My brain immediately supplies several options, none of which I can say out loud. "Cards? Stories? Dancing?"
"I don't have cards, and I can't dance."
"Stories, then."
"I don't have many of those either."
"Everyone has stories." I lean forward, elbows on the table. "Come on. Tell me something. Anything. What’s the worst job you ever had? Favorite food? First concert?"
He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer. Then: "First concert was Springsteen. I was sixteen. Drove six hours to see him."
"Springsteen." I grin. "That tracks."
"What tracks?"
"You’re all broody; it makes sense."
His eyes roll. "Your turn."
"Kelly Clarkson. Peak adolescence. I cried when she hit the high notes."
"Of course you did."
"Hey, don't judge. That woman's got pipes." I take a sip of water. "Worst job?"
"All of them had their moments."
"Come on. Give me something."
He exhales. "Construction, the summer before I enlisted. My boss was an asshole, work was brutal, and I spent three months in the Georgia heat pouring concrete."
"Why'd you enlist?" I’m intrigued about this part the most.
The question hangs between us. His face changes and I see walls going up so fast I almost miss the flash of pain beneath.
"It seemed like the right thing at the time." His voice goes flat.
Oh. The conversation is over.
I don't push. Instead, I shift gears. "What about your favorite food?"
"I don't have one." He shrugs. “I eat; that’s it.”
"Liar. Everyone has a favorite food."
He considers. "My sister used to make this lasagna; it took her all day, but it was worth every minute."
Used to. Past tense. This must be Beth’s mom.
"That sounds amazing," I say softly. "Maybe someday you'll make it."
"Maybe."
But I know he won't. I know that whatever happened to that life, to the man who ate lasagna and went to Springsteen concerts—he’s gone. He’s buried under snow and silence and years alone on this mountain.
"Cookie." Red's voice pulls me from my thoughts.
"Yeah?"
"Why'd you really come up here? Not the welfare check. The real reason."
The question catches me off guard. Sure, I could deflect or make a joke. Maybe even change the subject.
Instead, I tell him the truth.
"Because Beth asked me to. And because..." I swallow. "Because I know what it's like to spend Christmas alone. To feel like the world's moving on without you, and you're just... stuck. Going through the motions."
His eyes don't leave mine.
"I didn't want you to be alone," I finish. "Even if you wanted to be. Nobody should be alone at Christmas."
"You're alone too,” he says, leaning back.
It's not a question, but I answer it anyway.
"Yeah," I admit. "My parents died in a car accident.” A lump rises in my throat.
“I’m an only child, and uh, my friends are all with their families.
Beth invited me to spend Christmas with her and her boyfriend, but I couldn't—" I stop, surprised by the tightness in my throat.
"I couldn't be the third wheel watching everyone be happy while I pretend to be. "
"I’m sorry about your parents.”
“Thank you.”
“So, you put on a Santa costume and drove up a mountain."
I love how he can switch things up like he does. No time for tears and sadness here.
"It seemed better than sitting in my apartment eating takeout and watching Love Actually for the fifteenth time."
"That movie's terrible."
"It's perfect, and you're wrong."
His mouth twitches. "So, you want to spend Christmas in a cabin with a stranger instead of alone in your apartment. That says something about you."
"That I make questionable life choices?"
"That you’re kind." His voice goes rough. "That you value company. You’re human in ways most people aren’t.”
I can't inhale a full breath. Nobody's ever said it like that before—like being kind is worth something. Like I'm worth something beyond jokes and cookies.
"You’re kind too," I say quietly. "You could've left me on your porch or sent me away. But you let me in."
"Didn't have much choice."
"You always have a choice, Red."
His eyes hold mine across the table, and the air between us shifts into something heavier. Something that has nothing to do with power outages or Christmas or being stranded.
No, it’s something dangerous.
"We should get some sleep," he says finally, breaking the moment. "It's late."
I glance at the mantle clock, seeing its way past ten. "Yeah. Okay."
We move around each other in the lamplight, the darkness making everything feel more intimate. I brush my teeth with my fingers in the small bathroom while he sorts the fire. When I come back out, he's standing by the bed, his arms crossed, looking uncomfortable.
Is he waiting for me to get into bed? That’s… polite.
It seems like he is, so I climb into bed first, staying close to my edge, pulling the quilt up to my chin. He kills the remaining lamps until only firelight remains.
The mattress dips when he settles on his side, and suddenly the enormous bed feels impossibly small. I can feel the warmth radiating from his body and hear every breath he takes.
I close my eyes, aware of every sound, every shift of the sheets. The space between us thrums with tension made up of want and fear and something neither of us knows how to name.
Outside, the storm howls.
Inside, neither of us sleep.