Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
LEAH
The morning sun streams through the massive windows of Aaron's cabin, painting golden patterns across the empty sheets beside me. I reach out, finding the space still warm but Aaron nowhere to be seen. A moment of panic flutters in my chest before I hear soft movements in the kitchen.
He didn't disappear. The relief is embarrassing in its intensity.
I stretch languidly, my body pleasantly sore from our Christmas Eve activities. Last night had been perfect—Aaron opening up about his past, the tender exchange of gifts, and finally, those three words I'd been holding back for days.
I love you.
He hadn't said it back, but I hadn't expected him to. The way he'd kissed me afterward, held me through the night—that had been answer enough. For now.
Pulling on one of Aaron's flannel shirts that reaches mid-thigh on me, I pad barefoot across the cold hardwood floors, eager to start our Christmas morning together.
The scent of fresh coffee fills the cabin's open living space.
Aaron stands at the kitchen island, his broad back to me, shoulders tense as he stares out at the snow-covered forest through the wall of windows.
"Merry Christmas," I say softly.
He turns, and something in his expression makes me falter. His eyes are guarded, a tension in his jaw that wasn't there last night. He slides a mug across the counter toward me without quite meeting my gaze.
"Morning. Coffee's hot."
No "Merry Christmas" in return. No kiss. No warmth in his voice. Something has changed overnight, and cold dread pools in my stomach.
"Everything okay?" I ask, taking the offered mug, our fingers brushing briefly. He pulls his hand away too quickly.
"Fine." He moves to the fireplace, putting space between us as he stokes the embers and adds another log. "I need to get some work done in the shop today. The cradle needs finishing before New Year's."
"Oh." The disappointment is sharp, unexpected. "I thought maybe we could spend Christmas day together. I brought ingredients for breakfast, and we could—"
"I can't." He cuts me off, voice flat. "I'm behind on the commission."
I study him over the rim of my coffee mug, trying to understand what's happening. Last night, he'd held me like I was precious, listened to me say I loved him, promised me time. This morning, he can barely look at me.
"Aaron," I say carefully, "did something happen? Did I do something wrong?"
He sighs, running a hand through his hair—a gesture I now recognize as discomfort. "No. Nothing happened. I just need to get to work."
But his eyes shift away when he says it. Aaron Wilson may be many things, but a good liar isn't one of them.
Setting my coffee down, I move closer, not touching him but entering his space. "Talk to me. Please."
For a moment, his expression softens, and I glimpse the man from last night—vulnerable, open, present. Then the shutters come down again.
"There's nothing to talk about." He looks at the wooden carousel pendant resting against my chest, and something like pain flashes across his face. "Last night was... nice. But I have responsibilities."
"Nice?" The word stings like a slap. "That's what you're going with? Nice?"
His jaw tightens. "What do you want me to say, Leah?"
"The truth would be a start." I cross my arms, trying to keep hurt from bleeding into anger. "Because yesterday you couldn't keep your hands off me, and this morning you can barely look at me. What changed?"
He turns away, moving to the windows to stare out at the snow-covered forest. The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken words.
"You said you love me," he finally says, voice so low I almost miss it.
My heart stutters. "Yes. I do."
"You can't." He turns back to me, expression pained. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough." I step closer, encouraged when he doesn't retreat. "I know you're kind beneath that gruff exterior. I know you're talented and dedicated to your craft. I know you carry guilt that isn't yours to bear. I know you've been alone too long."
His laugh is harsh, without humor. "Three weeks, Leah. We've known each other three weeks. That's not long enough to love someone. It's infatuation. Holiday magic. It'll fade."
"Is that what you think this is?" I gesture between us, heat rising to my cheeks. "Some Christmas movie fantasy that will disappear with the decorations? Because that's not what I'm feeling."
"You don't know what you're feeling." His voice rises slightly, frustration edging in. "You're caught up in the idea of saving the grumpy mountain man. Bringing me back to civilization. It's a project for you, not love."
The accusation lands like a blow. "How dare you tell me what I'm feeling? You don't get to dismiss my emotions because they make you uncomfortable."
"I'm being realistic." He crosses his arms, defensive posture matching mine. "You're a community person, Leah. You thrive on connection, on helping, on fixing things. And I'm the most obviously broken thing in your path right now."
"Is that really what you think of me?" The hurt is razor-sharp now. "That I'm some do-gooder who targeted you as my personal renovation project?"
Doubt flickers in his eyes, but he doesn't back down. "I think you believe what you're saying. But feelings change. Novelty wears off."
"And you'd know all about that, would you?" I challenge, temper flaring. "Mr. Two-Years-of-Isolation? When was the last time you even tried to let someone in before me?"
His expression hardens. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" I step closer, refusing to let him shut me out. "You're not pushing me away because you think I don't love you. You're pushing me away because you're terrified I might actually mean it. Because that would mean risking something again. Opening yourself to the possibility of loss."
His eyes flash, confirming I've hit a nerve. "You think you've got me all figured out."
"No," I say more gently, "but I'm starting to. Aaron, what happened to your team was tragic. Surviving when they didn't was cruel luck. But punishing yourself by refusing connection, refusing love—that won't honor their memory."
"Don't." His voice drops to a dangerous quiet. "Don't use them to make your point."
I press on despite the warning, needing him to hear this. "You told me last night that they had families, people waiting for them to come home. That you had no one. But Aaron, you have me now. If you'll let yourself take that chance."
He turns away again, shoulders rigid with tension. "It's not that simple."
"It can be." I move behind him, not touching but close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. "Loving someone is always a risk. There are no guarantees. I could get hit by a truck tomorrow. You could fall off your mountain. Life is uncertain for everyone."
"And that's supposed to be comforting?" The bitterness in his voice doesn't mask the fear beneath it.
"It's supposed to be honest." I resist the urge to touch him, sensing he needs space. "What's the alternative? Never connecting with anyone? Living alone in this cabin until you're old and gray, surrounded by beautiful things you've created but no one to share them with?"
The silence that follows tells me my words have found their mark. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough with emotion.
"I don't know how to do this, Leah." The confession sounds torn from him. "I don't know how to be with someone again. To matter to someone. To have someone matter to me."
"I know you don't." I soften my tone, taking a careful step closer. "But we can figure it out together. Day by day."
He turns to face me, his expression raw with vulnerability. For a moment, I think I've reached him. Then he straightens, composing his features into that careful neutrality I haven't seen since our first days.
"I need to get back to work," he says, shoulders squaring. "The roads are getting worse with the snow. You should probably head back to town before your SUV can't make it down the mountain."
I realize he's dismissing me. Just like that. "Aaron—"
"Please." He holds up a hand, stopping my approach. "Last night was... important to me. You are important. But I can't do this right now."
The distinction hurts more than an outright rejection. Important. Not loved. Not needed. Just important.
"How much time?" I ask, hating how small my voice sounds.
He shakes his head, eyes avoiding mine. "I don't know. I just know I need to clear my head."
"It's Christmas Day," I remind him, one last attempt to reach him. "We can talk through this. Together."
His expression softens momentarily, conflict clear on his face. For a heartbeat, I think he might relent.
"I'm sorry," he says instead. "I'll check the road conditions. If it's too bad, I'll follow you down in my truck to make sure you get back safely."
That at least sounds like him—the protector, even when he's pushing me away.
I gather my things quickly, the ache in my chest growing with each passing minute. When I emerge from the bathroom dressed in yesterday's clothes, Aaron is by the front door, looking out at the falling snow with a frown.
"It's coming down harder," he says, not meeting my eyes. "I'll drive behind you. Make sure you don't get stuck."
"I can manage," I say stiffly, pride making me stubborn despite the practicality of his offer.
"Leah." His voice softens slightly. "Please. Just let me do this."
I nod once, too hurt to argue. Outside, my red SUV sits covered in a fresh layer of snow. Aaron brushes it off while I start the engine, the silence between us louder than the scrape of his snow brush against the windows.
The drive down the mountain is tense, my SUV crawling carefully over the snow-packed road, Aaron's black truck a constant presence in my rearview mirror.
His headlights remain steady behind me until I reach the main road into town, where he flashes his lights once—a silent goodbye—before turning back toward the mountain.
Only when his truck disappears from view do I allow the tears to fall, hot tracks down cold cheeks as I navigate the familiar streets toward my apartment.
Inside my empty home, Christmas decorations mock the hollowness in my chest. I'd been so excited about today—our first Christmas together, the beginning of something I'd thought could be beautiful and lasting. Now I stand alone, the day stretching empty before me.
I touch the carousel horse at my throat, tracing the intricate carving with my fingertip. He put his heart into this gift, into every moment we've shared these past weeks. That can't all disappear because three words frightened him back into isolation.
I won't chase him—his fears are real, and he needs time to process them. But I won't let him convince himself that what we've found isn't worth fighting for, either.
The New Year's Eve celebration is less than a week away. The bonfire, the dancing, the midnight fireworks—all the joy and community spirit that I love and he fears. A perfect symbol of the divide between us.
It would be easy for him to hide in his cabin that night, to use the crowds and noise as an excuse. But if he comes down from his mountain, braves the celebration, it will mean something. It will mean he's willing to try.
And if he doesn't? If he chooses isolation over the chance of love?
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of my apartment. I'll have my answer then. And somehow, I'll have to find a way to accept it, even if it breaks my heart.
But until then, I refuse to believe that the man who carved this pendant, who held me through the night, who looked at me like I was his salvation, doesn't feel what I feel.
He just needs time to accept that he deserves it.