Chapter 36 Jess
Jess
The cabin smells like cedar and rain and there’s absolutely nothing threatening about it or the woods outside whatsoever.
When you’re actively lying to yourself and hoping it works.
I’m standing at the window watching the last light filter through the pines while Marco unpacks our gear in the main room. Ben’s down the hallway in the bedroom, her voice carrying as she arranges Frederick and narrates their entire setup process.
“This is your side, Frederick. And this is my side. And we’re going to be very brave tonight because Daddy says there’s nothing scary in the woods.”
From the mouth of a five-year-old.
I grip the window frame and count breaths. One, two, three. The trees outside are just trees. Not threats. Just regular ass trees doing tree things.
Like photosynthesis.
And being creepy as hell in the dark.
“You good?” Marco’s voice cuts through my mental spiral.
I turn and paste on my best everything-is-fine smile. “Totally good. Just enjoying the view.”
He studies me with those dark eyes that see way too much. “The view of trees you’re terrified of?”
“I’m not terrified.” The lie tastes sour. “I’m just. Cautious. There’s a difference.”
“Uh huh.” He doesn’t push. Just sets the satphone on the table where I can see it. Then his bear spray. Then his pack with all the emergency supplies clearly visible.
Oh.
He’s staging them so I can see them.
So I know we’re safe.
My throat goes tight. Because that’s what he does. He notices things. He adjusts. He creates structure around the mess that is me without making me feel like I’m broken.
“Dinner in twenty,” he says. “I’ll get the kitchen going.”
“The kitchen?” I follow him to what I assumed was just a rustic cabin kitchen but is actually a full billionaire-grade setup. Induction cooktop. Convection oven built into the cabinetry. A ventilation hood that probably cost more than my entire apartment.
“Where do you get the power for all this?” I ask.
“Solar plus batteries, with a propane generator backup.” He’s already pulling out ingredients from the industrial-grade refrigerator. “The propane tank’s around back. Holds enough fuel for six months of generator use if the solar goes down in winter.”
Because of course Marco Fiore owns a wilderness cabin with a full solar setup and battery bank.
I can’t help but smile. “So we’re definitely glamping.”
“We’re teaching wilderness respect with backup infrastructure.” He touches the induction burner and it powers up instantly, the battery bank clearly holding plenty of charge from today’s sun. “There’s a difference.”
I glance at the dim overhead lights.
When your idea of camping involves solar arrays, battery banks, propane backup systems, and appliances that cost more than a car.
Peak billionaire energy.
Not complaining though.
“Actually, it sounds perfect,” I tell him.
Because it does.
Because anything that doesn’t involve me having a complete meltdown in front of his daughter sounds perfect right now.
Ben appears from down the hallway holding Frederick. “Can I help make dinner?”
“Always, piccola.” Marco lifts her onto a stool at the marble-topped island that somehow exists in this “rustic” cabin. “You’re my sous chef.”
I watch them work together. The induction burner heats water instantly, running smooth and silent off the solar batteries, while Marco explains the science to Ben in terms a five-year-old can grasp.
As his hands guide hers while she tears basil, she wears her serious concentration face. He explains every step like she’s a real chef in training and not a kindergartner with a stuffed snail.
When you realize you’re watching your future and it’s both perfect and terrifying.
Because this is what I want. This domesticity. This family unit. These moments that aren’t curated for content or filtered for algorithms. Just real life happening in a cabin in the woods that I’m absolutely not freaking out about.
The ventilation hood hums quietly overhead, whisking away any cooking smells before they can linger.
When they’re finished, dinner is surprisingly good. Marco made this simple spaghetti aglio e olio dish that tastes like butter and garlic had a love affair with pasta.
Ben eats three servings and declares it “almost as good as Nonno’s sfogliatelle.”
“Almost?” Marco raises an eyebrow.
“Nothing beats Nonno’s pastries, Daddy. You know this.”
I nearly spit out my water laughing. Because she’s absolutely right and completely savage about it.
He sighs. “Fair point, piccola.”
After dinner, Ben insists on telling us about Frederick’s woodland survival skills. Apparently the snail is an expert at finding safe hiding spots and knows exactly which leaves are edible.
“He ate seventeen leaves today,” she informs us seriously. “And none of them made him sick.”
“Frederick’s very wise,” I tell her.
“I know.” She yawns. “Can we do the Brave Rules before bed?”
I smile patiently. “Of course.”
We move down the hallway to the bedroom. Ben climbs into bed with Frederick. Marco sits on one side, I sit on the other.
“One, two, three squeeze,” I say, taking her small hand.
She squeezes back. “One, two, three brave.”
“Now smell the cocoa.”
She inhales deeply even though there’s no cocoa. Just the memory of it.
“And blow the steam.”
She exhales slowly. Her whole body relaxes into the pillows.
“So brave, my sweet girl,” Marco tells her quietly.
“I know.” Another yawn. “Frederick says I’m the bravest.”
Marco smiles proudly. “Frederick’s right.”
Within minutes she’s asleep. Starfished across the bed with one arm flung over Frederick like he might escape in the night.
Marco adjusts the blanket around her. The gesture is so tender it makes my chest ache.
“She’s out,” he whispers.
“Hard.”
We retreat to the great room. It’s basically just an open space with a couch, a table, and a fireplace that Marco carefully lights after triple-checking the flue and staging a fire extinguisher within arm’s reach because apparently even romance requires a safety protocol.
“You’re really intense about this,” I observe as he adjusts the screen for the third time.
“Fire’s unpredictable.” He turns off the overhead lights and settles back on the couch beside me, finally satisfied.
“Like you?” I taunt.
He shrugs. “Like the both of us.”
I settle deeper into the cushions. He’s still beside me. Not touching but close enough that I can feel his warmth and the glow from the flames.
“You did good today,” he says quietly.
“I fumbled the bear spray twice,” I reply.
“But you stayed.”
He’s right. I did stay. Even though every cell in my body was screaming to get back in the Range Rover and drive straight to Manhattan where the only wildlife is rats and pigeons.
I swallow. “Thanks for. You know. Being patient with me.”
He smiles. “Always.”
The word lands heavier than it should. Like a promise.
Like forever.
We sit in comfortable silence. The kind that only happens when you’ve seen each other naked and also in crisis and also in those weird in-between moments that don’t photograph well but matter more than anything.
Then I hear it.
A sound outside. Something moving through the underbrush.
My whole body goes rigid.
“Just an animal,” Marco says calmly. “Probably a deer.”
“Right,” I agree. “A deer.”
Another sound. Closer this time. A branch snapping.
My heart kicks into overdrive. I’m counting breaths but they’re coming too fast.
One, two, three
Fuck.
One, two, three.
“Jess.” Marco’s voice cuts through the spiral. “Look at me.”
I force my eyes to his. He’s steady. Calm. Completely unbothered by the sounds of nature doing nature things outside.
“It’s just the woods,” he says. “Nothing out there wants to hurt us.”
But he’s wrong. Because the woods do hurt people. The woods turn on you when you least expect it. The woods take little girls and leave them crying by creek beds hoping someone will find them before they die.
“Breathe,” he instructs. “One.”
I inhale shakily.
“Two.”
Another breath. Slightly steadier.
“Three.”
The exhale feels like letting go of something I’ve been holding onto for way too long.
He kneels in front of me. Takes both my hands. Then he squeezes.
“Again,” he instructs. “And squeeze with each breath.”
I obey him.
And...
I feel better.
I look into his eyes. Instead of the predatory expression that usually consumes his vision whenever he touches me, I see... tenderness.
And it brings sudden tears to my eyes.
I blink them away, averting my gaze.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Everything’s okay. Just breath.”
I do.
Then he hugs me.
He holds me like that for the longest time. Just holding me. Making sure I’m okay.
I breath into his shoulder, feeling so relaxed, so safe.
Cherished.
I want him to never let go.
I want to stay in this moment forever.
I feel the hot breath of his words as he whispers in my ear. “Tell me.”
I hesitate. “Tell you what?”
That I love you?
“What happened,” he continues. “The real story. Not the half-truth you gave me earlier.”
Oh.
My face goes hot. Because of course he knew I was holding back. He always knows.
“I—”
I want to tell him.
And yet... at the same time, I don’t.
I’m not even sure I have it in me to reveal this deepest, darkest, most fragile part of myself to him.
He waits. Doesn’t say anything further. Doesn’t try to prod me.
Just waits.
And sitting there, safe in his arms, cherished in his arms, I... I find myself unable to hold back anymore.
I spill everything.
“I was seven,” I hear myself say. The words come out quiet. Shaky. “A family camping trip. An ‘adventure,’ my dad called it.”
He squeezes tighter. Doesn’t speak. Just listens.
“I wandered off. Just for a minute. I thought I saw a rabbit and I wanted to show my parents. But then... then I couldn’t find the path back. I kept... walking. Stopping sometimes to change directions. Then... walking some more. Called out. No one answered.”
The memory hits like a wave. Sharp and cold and way too vivid.