Chapter 7 – Jade
I wake slowly, swimming up through layers of contentment like a diver rising from deep water.
The first thing I register is warmth—Victor's body curved protectively around mine, one heavy arm draped over my waist, his breath steady against my neck.
The second is light—golden afternoon sun slanting through the cabin windows, painting everything in amber and honey tones.
I don't move. I can't bear to break this spell, this perfect moment where time feels suspended. Outside, the forest whispers as a soft breeze stirs the pines. Inside, there's just our breathing, synchronized now after hours in each other's arms.
Victor stirs behind me, his arm tightening slightly around my waist. "You're thinking too loud," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
I smile, though he can't see it. "Sorry. Occupational hazard."
"Mmm." His lips brush the nape of my neck. "What time is it?"
I glance at the window, gauging the angle of light. "Late afternoon, maybe six-thirty?"
"We should eat something." But he doesn't move, just nuzzles closer, his beard tickling my shoulder.
"Probably." I turn in his arms to face him, drinking in the sight of him—hair mussed, eyes soft with sleep, the usual hard lines of his face relaxed. "Hi."
His mouth curves in a small smile. "Hi."
For a moment, we just look at each other, the air between us charged with something new and fragile. Then his stomach growls loudly, breaking the spell, and I burst out laughing.
"Dinner it is," I say, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before sitting up.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, suddenly aware of my nakedness. Not embarrassed—just aware of his eyes on me as I stand and stretch. I spot his flannel shirt draped over a chair and pull it on.
"That looks better on you than it ever did on me," he says, sitting up against the headboard.
"I'll take that as permission to borrow it." I strike a mock fashion pose. "What do you think? New Fall trend?"
He laughs, the sound warming me from the inside out. "Definitely."
In the kitchen, we move around each other with surprising ease, as if we've done this dance a hundred times before. He retrieves ingredients from the refrigerator while I chop vegetables. He hands me a knife without me having to ask. I find the salt exactly where I expect it to be.
"You're good at that," he comments, watching me dice an onion with quick, precise movements.
"You sound surprised." I flick a piece of onion skin at him.
"I am, a little. You struck me as more of a takeout person."
"I was, for a long time." I scrape the onions into a waiting pan where they sizzle in hot oil. "But after Dad died, I started cooking more. It made me feel...connected to him, I guess."
Victor nods, something soft and sad passing across his face. "He made a mean chili."
"The best," I agree, throat tightening unexpectedly.
He moves closer, resting a hand on the small of my back—not to take over, just to connect. I lean into the touch, grateful for the understanding without words.
By the time we finish preparing our simple meal—pasta with vegetables and venison in a red wine sauce—twilight has fallen. Victor lights candles on the table, the flames casting a warm, flickering glow that softens the cabin's rustic edges.
"This is amazing," I say after the first bite.
"It's just pasta."
"No, I mean..." I gesture between us, at the candlelit table, the comfortable silence. "This. How easy it is."
He looks down at his plate, a small crease appearing between his brows. "It shouldn't be this easy."
"Why not?"
"Because nothing worth having ever is." He twirls pasta around his fork, thoughtful.
I reach across the table and take his hand. "Maybe we've both had enough hard. Maybe we deserve some easy."
He doesn't respond, but his thumb strokes across my knuckles, and the gesture feels like agreement.
"Tell me something about you I don't know," I say, refilling our wine glasses.
He considers this. "I can play the piano."
I nearly choke on my wine. "What? No way."
"My mother insisted on lessons. Said it would make me 'well-rounded.' I hated it at first, but..."
"But you secretly loved it," I finish for him, delighted by this unexpected revelation.
We continue trading stories as the evening deepens around us.
He tells me about the first cabin he built here—a one-room structure that collapsed during a heavy snowfall.
I share stories about my worst photography gigs, including a wedding where the bride's mother tried to pay me in handmade scarves.
"They weren't even good scarves," I say, gesturing wildly. "They had these weird bobbles that made them look diseased."
Victor's laugh fills the cabin, deep and genuine. It transforms his face completely, erasing the stern lines I first encountered. I can't help reaching for my camera, which sits on the counter where I left it earlier.
I capture him mid-laugh, head thrown back, candlelight turning his beard to gold. The shutter click makes him look at me, but he doesn't protest this time. Instead, he holds my gaze across the table, letting me see him fully, without guards or walls.
As we clear the dishes together, I check my phone out of habit, finding a message from my editor about tomorrow's bus schedule. Reality crashes in like a cold wave.
"Everything okay?" Victor asks, noticing my expression.
"Just work," I say, my voice tight despite my efforts. "Confirming my departure time tomorrow."
The mood shifts subtly. His movements become more methodical, his expression guarded again. The silence between us grows weighted, each moment ticking down to a departure I'm no longer sure I want.
"I have to be on the 10 a.m. bus," I say finally, setting down the plate I've been drying.
Victor nods, not looking at me. "I know."
"What if I didn't go?"
His hands still in the soapy water. Slowly, he turns to face me, his expression cautious, as if afraid to hope. "What do you mean?"
"I mean..." I take a deep breath, gathering courage. "What if I stayed? Not just for another day or two. But longer."
"You have a life in San Francisco. Your work, your apartment—"
"I can work from anywhere. That's the beauty of freelancing." I step closer to him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body. "And my apartment... it's just a place. It's not home."
He studies my face, searching for something. "And this could be? Home?"
"I don't know," I answer honestly. "But I want to find out. With you."
Victor dries his hands slowly on a dish towel, his movements deliberate, like he's buying time to process. When he speaks, his voice is low, careful. "If you stay, it won't be easy. I'm not easy."
I laugh softly. "I noticed."
"I'm serious, Jade. I'm set in my ways. I've been alone for a long time."
"I know who you are, Victor." I reach up, placing my palm against his bearded cheek. "I'm not asking you to change. I'm asking if there's room in your life for me, just as I am."
He turns his face slightly, pressing a kiss to my palm. "If you stay," he says slowly, "it won't be temporary."
It's not a question. It's a condition, a line drawn.
"I don't want temporary," I tell him, holding his gaze. "Not with you."
For a long moment, he just looks at me, the air between us charged with possibility and fear and something deeper, something neither of us has named yet. Then he cups my face in his hands, thumbs brushing my cheekbones with a gentleness that makes my chest ache.
"Then stay," he says simply.
The kiss that follows is different from our earlier ones—not desperate or hungry, but slow, deliberate.
A choice made with open eyes. His hands frame my face like I'm something precious, something he's afraid might disappear if he blinks.
Mine rest on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath my palm.