Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Anniston
I couldn't sleep.
The bed was comfortable enough. Warm and solid with the kind of simple comfort I hadn't felt in months.
But every time I closed my eyes, I was back in the storm. Lost, cold and alone.
And every time I opened them, I saw him.
Knox. Still awake on the floor near the woodstove. His broad back against the wall. Legs stretched out in front of him. Firelight catching the sharp angles of his face.
The storm hadn't let up. Rain still hammered the roof. Wind rattled the windows.
But inside, it was quiet. Just the crackle of the fire and the sound of our breathing.
I should've been scared. Alone with a stranger in the middle of nowhere. No phone. No way to call for help if I needed it.
But I wasn't.
Something about him—the careful way he'd wrapped my ankle, the deliberate distance he maintained, the fact that he'd given up his bed without hesitation—made me feel safer than I had in a long time.
Safer than I'd felt in Charleston. In my mother's house. In Andrew's pristine condo where everything had a place and I'd never quite fit into mine.
I shifted slightly, testing my ankle. Still tender.
He turned his head at the sound.
Our eyes met across the small room.
"Can't sleep?" His voice was low. Rough from disuse.
"No." I sat up slowly, pulling the blanket around my shoulders. "The storm..."
"Yeah."
He understood. I could see it in the way his jaw tightened. The way his gaze moved to the window like he was tracking something I couldn't see.
"Do you want the bed?" I asked. "I can take the floor."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
Something almost like humor flickered across his face. "What do I look like?"
"Like you're not sleeping."
He didn't deny it. Just turned back to the fire.
I should've left it alone. Should've laid back down and pretended to sleep until morning came and I could leave.
But something about the darkness. The storm. The strange intimacy of being awake together while the rest of the world slept made me brave.
"Can I ask you something?" I said quietly.
He glanced at me. Wary. "Depends."
"Do you get a lot of people knocking on your door in the middle of storms?"
Something that might've been humor flickered across his face. "No."
"So I'm special."
"You're lucky." He shifted against the wall. "Another hour out there and you wouldn't have made it. Not with the way that storm is raging."
The bluntness should've bothered me. Instead, it felt honest. Real.
"I know," I said quietly. "Thank you. For opening the door and letting me in."
He nodded once.
We were both silent for a couple of minutes.
"What were you running from?" he asked. "When your car broke down?"
“Who says I’m running?” I asked.
“Call it a hunch.” He looked at me with an intensity that went straight to my core. “Am I wrong?”
I should've deflected. Given him some sanitized version that didn't expose too much.
But we were past that, so I shook my head. "My wedding."
His eyebrows rose slightly.
"Three days ago," I continued. "I was supposed to walk down the aisle in front of three hundred people. Marry a man I didn't love. Become exactly who everyone expected me to be."
"But you didn't."
"No. I packed a bag and drove away." I laughed, but it sounded hollow even to me. "Turns out running away is easier than I thought. It's the staying gone that's hard."
"Why'd you run?"
"Because I realized I'd spent my entire life trying to be perfect for other people. The perfect daughter. The perfect fiancée. And none of it was real." I looked down at my hands. "I didn't even know who I was underneath all of it."
Knox was quiet for a long moment. "And now?" he finally asked.
"Now I'm sitting in a stranger's cabin in the middle of a storm, wearing borrowed clothes, with no idea what comes next." I met his eyes. "But at least I'm not pretending anymore."
Something shifted in his expression. His face softened ever so slightly.
"What about you?" I asked. "What are you running from?"
"Everything." The word came out flat and fast.
"That's a lot."
"Yeah."
I waited, hoping he'd say more.
He didn't.
But he also didn't look away.
The firelight caught the scar along his jawline. Another along his collarbone where his thermal shirt collar gaped. I'd noticed them before—impossible not to.
"Can I ask how you got those?" I nodded toward the scar on his jaw.
"Which one?"
"Any of them."
He was quiet for so long I thought he wouldn't answer.
"Different places. Different times. Most of them I don't think about anymore."
"Were you military?"
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"Too long."
I shifted on the bed, letting my legs hang over the side. My wrapped ankle protested, but I ignored it.
"You don't have to talk about it," I said quietly. "I was just curious."
"Why?"
"Because you saved my life tonight. And I don't even know who you are."
"You know my name."
"That's not the same thing."
He studied me. Those gray eyes steady and unreadable.
Then he stood and moved toward me.
My breath caught as he crossed the small space. This mountain of a man stopped just in front of where I sat on the bed.
This close, I could see the definition in his shoulders. The way his thermal shirt stretched across his chest. The scar that ran along his ribs, visible where the fabric had ridden up.
Without thinking, I reached out.
My fingers touched the scar on his ribs. Just barely. A whisper of contact.
He went completely still.
"Sorry," I started to pull back. "I shouldn't have?—"
His hand caught my wrist. Not rough. Just... there. Stopping me.
Our eyes met.
The air between us shifted. It felt charged. Like lightning about to strike.
"Anniston." My name came out rough. Almost a warning.
"Knox."
He could've stepped back. Could've let go of my wrist and moved away.
Instead, he moved closer.
His free hand came up to my face. Rough fingers brushed against my cheek so gently it made my chest ache.
I couldn't breathe. Or think. All I could do was feel the heat of him. His solid presence. The way his thumb traced the line of my jaw like he was memorizing it.
"This is a bad idea," he said quietly.
"I know."
"You're leaving in the morning."
"I know."
"And I'm not—" He stopped. Started again. "I can't?—"
"I know," I whispered.
But neither of us moved away.
His face was so close now. Inches. I could feel his breath against my lips. Could see the way his pupils had blown wide.
I tilted my chin up.
He leaned down.
Almost there. Almost?—
"Don't."
The word came out harsh. Directed at himself, not at me.
He pulled back abruptly. Dropped his hand from my face and let go of my wrist.
Then he stepped away like I'd burned him.
I sat there, frozen. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it over the storm.
"Knox—"
"You should sleep." His voice was rough. Strained. "It's late."
"I'm not tired."
"Try anyway."
He turned his back to me and moved to the far side of the room. The man put as much distance between us as the small cabin would allow.
I stared at his broad shoulders, sensing as much as seeing the tension radiating through every line of his body.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "I didn't mean to?—"
"Don't." He didn't turn around.
I lay back down slowly and pulled the blanket up. Then I tried and failed to steady my breathing.
I could still feel the ghost of his touch on my face. And when I closed my eyes, I saw the heat in his eyes right before he pulled away.
Outside, the storm raged on. Inside, the silence felt heavier than before.
I forced my eyes to stay closed and pretended to sleep.
I told myself I wasn't disappointed. That this was just one night. Nothing more than shelter from a storm.
But my racing heart knew the truth.
Something had shifted between us in those few seconds when his hand touched my face.
And there was no going back.