7. Margot
7
MARGOT
T he gravel crunches beneath the tires as we pull into the narrow driveway, the cabin barely visible in the early morning fog. It’s quiet here, too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your thoughts louder, your heartbeat sharper. I stare out the window, hands clenched in my lap, as the car slows to a stop.
“This is it?” Grayson asks, shifting into park.
I nod. “It’s not much, but it’s off-grid. No signal, no neighbors. Just trees, air, and maybe a few raccoons with boundary issues.”
He raises a brow. “Perfect. You, me, and woodland surveillance.”
I roll my eyes and push open the door, stepping out into the crisp air. The cabin is a squat, cedar-shingled thing tucked between towering pines, with smoke-stained stone steps and a porch that creaks under my weight. It smells like moss and memory, like something untouched by time. Grayson hoists both duffels like they weigh nothing, following me up the steps.
Inside, it’s as expected. Rustic. Clean, but sparse. One large room with a kitchenette, a fireplace, and a worn couch that looks like it’s seen a few arguments. One bedroom. One bed. Which, of course, makes sense, we’re engaged. Sharing a bed is nothing new. The place is small, just a few steps from the front door to the fireplace, a single table tucked into the corner by the kitchenette. Everything feels close here, every breath, every glance. Still, something about seeing that bed again in this quiet space, away from the chaos, feels... intimate in a way I wasn’t prepared for. My breath catches for a second, but I don’t stop walking. Sharing a bed isn’t new to us, it’s familiar, even expected by now, through tension, through passion, through everything in between. But the sight of it, simple and unassuming in the middle of the room, sends a flicker of awareness down my spine. Not because it’s unexpected. But because it feels inevitable. Grayson notices.
“I’ll take the couch,” he says quickly, setting the bags down.
“Don’t be silly,” I reply.
We stand there for a moment, the silence thick and awkward. My pulse thuds a little louder than it should. Maybe because he looks unfairly good in a simple T-shirt and jeans, like the woods themselves gave up trying to humble him.
I clear my throat. “I’ll make coffee.”
He grins. “Thank God. If I have to survive this with only your suspicion and my sarcasm, I’m going to need caffeine.”
I glare at him, but it’s half-hearted. “If you’re trying to win me over with charm, you might need a better strategy.”
He leans against the doorway, arms crossed. “No strategy. Just honesty. You’re impossible and I like impossible things.”
Something twists in my chest, annoyance, affection, maybe both. I busy myself with the old percolator, listening to the hiss and bubble of water heating. He moves quietly behind me, rummaging through cabinets for mugs. Our hands brush when we both reach for the same chipped cup.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
He doesn’t pull away. “It’s okay.”
I don’t look up. I can’t. Not when every inch of me feels too aware of him.
We drink our coffee in silence, seated on opposite sides of the couch, legs tucked up, pretending the tension doesn’t exist. Eventually, I get up and start unpacking. The drawers are shallow and old, sticking slightly when I pull them open. I fold my clothes into neat piles, arranging them with more focus than necessary. Grayson drops his bag onto the edge of the bed and begins unloading with less precision, shirts haphazardly stacked, socks tossed like they’ll sort themselves.
"You pack like a man who’s never folded a shirt in his life," I say, glancing over my shoulder.
He shrugs. "I pack like a man who didn’t know we’d be fleeing the city in the middle of the night."
"You had time to pick your favorite T-shirt," I point out, nodding toward the soft, worn black one he's currently wearing.
He smirks. "It was either that or the one with a mustard stain from that hot dog stand you made me try."
I narrow my eyes. "That hot dog was iconic."
He chuckles. "It tried to kill me."
There’s a beat of silence, then we both laugh, really laugh, and something eases between us.
When we finish unpacking, I start putting together a quick dinner. Canned lentil soup warmed on the stove. Half a stale baguette we found wrapped in foil at the bottom of the grocery bag. Coffee reheated in a dented tin pot. Grayson stands behind me, slicing an apple with the kind of casual confidence that annoys me more than it should.
"You know," he says, handing me a slice, "this whole domestic routine we’re doing would be kind of charming if we weren’t doing it to avoid a corporate sabotage scandal."
I take the apple from him, our fingers brushing again. "If we survive this, I’m putting that on our wedding website. ‘Bonded over algorithmic betrayal and limited pantry staples.’"
His smile fades into something softer. “You’re really thinking about the wedding?”
I pause, looking at him. “Aren’t you?”
He nods slowly. “Every day.”
And just like that, the air shifts again. From teasing to something heavier. Something closer. I turn back to the stove, trying to hide the blush crawling up my neck. “We should eat before the oatmeal turns into glue.”
Grayson’s voice is warm behind me. “Lead the way, fiancée.” Outside, the sun finally begins to rise, casting golden light through the windows, warming the hardwood floors.
“I don’t know how long we’ll need to stay here,” I say quietly.
“As long as it takes,” he replies.
Our eyes meet. There’s no fight in either of us now. Just a quiet resignation. We’re stuck here together, indefinitely. After dinner, we wash the dishes in the tiny porcelain sink. It’s barely big enough for two plates and a couple of mugs, but Grayson insists on drying. Mostly so he can critique my rinsing technique.
“You missed a spot,” he says, inspecting a spoon like it’s evidence.
I snatch it back. “It’s a soup spoon, not a microscope slide.”
“Still. Cleanliness is next to godliness.”
“Says the man who once left a protein shake bottle in his car for a week.”
He winces. “Low blow.”
“You brought it on yourself.”
He’s quiet for a second, then smiles like he can’t help it. “You always do that.”
“What?”
“Put me in my place. Just when I start to think I’ve got the upper hand.”
I smirk, passing him the next plate. “You never had the upper hand.”
The cabin creaks softly around us, the old wood shifting as the temperature drops. The wind rustles outside, brushing through the trees. Inside, it’s warm. Still. Our hands keep bumping. Our eyes keep catching. By the time the last dish is on the rack, the air between us is full of things we aren’t saying.
“You want the first shower?” I ask.
He leans back against the counter, arms crossed, eyes lingering a second too long. “Only if you promise not to steal all the hot water.”
“No promises,” I say, and walk away before he can see me smile.