Chapter 6 Creed
CHAPTER SIX
Creed
My body’s already awake before my mind even registers it. It’s always the same.
My body knows the drill.
Always has. Always will.
I sit up in bed and rub the sleep from my eyes, already feeling the familiar ache of muscle and bone telling me it’s time to move.
The silence of the cabin is broken only by the sound of my breath. I throw the covers off and plant my feet on the cold wood floor.
It’s five a.m. on the dot.
I stand, stretching my arms above my head. I don’t need an alarm to wake up. I’ve never needed one.
My routine is how I’ve managed to keep the chaos at bay. The routine gives me control. And control is the only thing that makes sense in a life like mine.
It gives me time to think. Especially about that beautiful woman who’s just come into our lives to cook for us… at this remote location…
I push that thought away. Focus.
I throw on my running gear, loose sweatpants, a fitted shirt, and my old sneakers, and head out the door.
The air hits me as soon as I step outside, sharp and crisp, cutting through the haze of sleep. The scent of pine and wet earth fills my lungs as I breathe deep.
I don’t run to clear my head. I run because it’s the only way to feel in control. No distractions. No bullshit. Just the rhythm of my feet hitting the earth, the cool biting at my skin.
The gravel crunches beneath my shoes as I move through the woods, down the winding trail that leads toward the valley.
The frost clings to the windows of the nearby cabins like fragile, delicate lace. It’s cold, colder than usual this morning, but I welcome it.
I pull my hood a little lower, my breath clouding in front of me with each inhale.
The world is still dark, the first light of dawn barely creeping over the horizon. The forest is hushed, save for the occasional rustling of the trees or the faraway call of a bird.
I love this time of morning, the silence before everything wakes up.
It’s the only time of day when I can honestly think without the constant static of everything else in my head.
I don’t need the noise. I don’t need people.
Well, not most people.
The music in my ears is a distraction I’m grateful for—low, rhythmic beats of something profound and instrumental that keeps me grounded.
The songs are ones I’ve listened to countless times, but the familiar melodies are like a steady pulse in the havoc. The sound reminds me of the miles behind me and the miles ahead. Of pushing through, one step after another, each breath like a small victory.
A few locals are already up and about as I pass through the sleepy streets of Coyote Glen.
The sight of them gives me a brief, distant sense of connection. I pass the postman with his truck full of packages, and a jogger making her way back into town, her legs pumping as she matches my pace for a few seconds.
I offer a slight nod to both, but I keep my focus on the trail. I don’t need conversation.
The frost on the trees is glittering now, catching the first rays of the sun like tiny diamonds on branches. My heart beats in time with the pulse of the music, the cold air stinging in my chest, the thud of my shoes against the earth.
There’s something almost meditative about it. The running. The control. The solitude. It’s all part of the same equation, a way of carving out a small piece of peace in the middle of the noise.
The run feels quicker than usual today. Maybe it’s because the air is so sharp and the world is so still, or maybe it’s because I’ve got something on my mind that’s pulling me back toward the cabin.
Either way, I make my way back, the path now bathed in early light, the fog lifting in the valley below. The ache in my muscles is there, but it’s the kind that reminds me I’m alive, that I’m still pushing forward.
When I get back to the cabin, the sun’s up, and the world is finally turning.
I shed my sweaty clothes and head for the shower, steam rising around me as the hot water hits my back.
It’s still early enough that the living room is empty, and I have a few minutes of solitude before the day starts.
I dry off quickly, throw on some fresh clothes, and head for the kitchen.
The smells hit me the second I step through the door. Sizzling onions and garlic fill the cabin, the savory aromas mixing with the earthy scent of pine outside.
And in front of it all, her.
Sloane.
I pause, leaning against the doorframe. She’s standing at the stove, her back to me, moving with a quiet sort of grace.
The kitchen smells like a damn restaurant, and for a second, I forget that I was supposed to be out of her way. I was supposed to keep my distance.
So why the hell can’t I move?
Why can’t I take my damn eyes off her?
But then she turns, catching sight of me, and I realize I haven’t spoken to her since yesterday.
“Morning,” she says. “I didn’t see you there…”
“Morning,” I grunt back, still hoarse from the run.
I make my way toward the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water. I’m trying not to stare at the way she moves, the way she fills the space around her.
The place feels… different now. Less empty. But that doesn’t mean I should let it get to me.
I take a long drink, clearing my throat as I glance over at the stove. The smell is mouthwatering. I’m suddenly reminded of how long it’s been since I’ve had a real meal. A home-cooked one, anyway.
“You cooking breakfast?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Yeah,” she replies, her tone a little unsure. “I hope this is alright. I wanted to get started on something nice for everyone.”
I nod and swallow hard.
Shit. I didn’t mention my diet yesterday.
I’m not about to launch into some long spiel about how I need my meals to be protein-heavy and clean.
That’s my thing. Always has been. I don’t eat the way most people do, and I definitely don’t eat as crazy as a rockstar.
But I realize, way too late, that I never actually told her. She’s probably making something that’s entirely off limits for me.
It sure smells like it. My stomach tightens in protest. It’s the kind of thing I can’t eat. The sort of thing I don’t want to eat.
Sloane looks up at me, her eyes flicking to the water bottle in my hand before settling back on the stove. “Anything specific you want? I could make something else if—”
I hold up a hand, cutting her off before the awkwardness grows. “No, it’s fine. I… I didn’t mention that I have a strict diet. You know, for training.”
The words feel clunky. Forced. I’m not used to explaining myself. Delaney just knew. I guess I must have told her at some point, but I don’t recall.
Sloane’s eyes darken, and her shoulders tense up just a little. I can see the way her eyes dart to the counter, then back to me, trying to figure out how to handle the situation. She seems… flustered.
“I didn’t think,” she mutters, her tone now apologetic. “I’m sorry. I’ll make something else…”
She’s trying so hard not to make this awkward, but it’s obviously messy. I can practically feel the tension between us, a crackling energy that wasn’t there yesterday.
“Look, I didn’t mean to make things weird,” I add, trying to backtrack. “I should’ve mentioned it earlier. Don’t worry about making anything for me. I can sort myself out.”
“But that’s what I’m here for…”
“I get it,” I snap back way too defensively. “It’s just… this is the way I do things. You don’t need to go out of your way for me. I don’t want…”
She straightens her back, pulling the spatula from the skillet as a weapon.
“Right. So, you’ve got your… routine.” Her words are almost biting, though she’s still trying to smile. I can tell it’s forced. “What, no carbs, no flavor? Just chicken and rice all the time?”
The heat floods my neck, and it takes everything in me not to snap back. I hate it when people question me, especially about this.
I know what’s best for my body, and I won’t have anyone tell me otherwise.
“It’s not that. I just… need to stick to it,” I bite. “I’m not one of those guys who can afford to eat whatever’s put in front of me.”
She blinks at me, her expression softening a little, but the edge is still there. I can see it, feel it in the way she’s standing—she’s ready for the next little bomb to drop.
“Well, I’ll… get you something more ‘routine friendly’ then,” she mutters, clearly still flustered, and I can’t help but notice the way her lips press together, trying to hide her frustration. “What works for you?”
“Like I said, I will sort it.”
“No, no, you hired me.” Her spine stiffens. “If you give me the information, I’ll make it work. Chicken and rice? Protein shakes? What?”
She gets my back up. “You don’t need to be like that about it.”
“It’s just going to be hard. To make food you might eat. Food that tastes good.”
“It’s not about the taste,” I grit out, knowing that I have wound her up as well. “It’s about what I need to stay in shape. I don’t have the luxury of indulging in whatever’s convenient.”
“Convenient? I’m not making fast food, Creed.”
I throw my hands in the air in frustration. “I’m not asking you to cater to me, I’m just trying to make it clear that I don’t eat like everyone else.”
“Oh, I get that. But what I need is for you to tell me. I’m not a psychic.”
I wince, but I can’t exactly backpedal without it appearing like a complete jerk. Instead, I take another swig of water and move to grab a banana off the counter, the awkward silence stretching between us.
I know I’ve gotten off on the wrong foot here, but I have no idea how to fix it.