Chapter 3 – Demi
The bed dominates the space, its frame made of dark, heavy wood that looks hand-carved, the quilt folded neatly across the foot worn soft from years of use.
A single window looks out onto the darkening forest, snow still falling in slow, lazy spirals that catch the last blue light of evening.
The walls are bare except for a single shelf holding a few books, their spines cracked and faded.
It's spare, functional, a space that reveals more about Joseph in its simplicity than anything he's said out loud.
I close the door softly behind me, more out of habit than necessity, and set my bag on the floor beside the dresser. The wood is cool under my fingertips as I steady myself, taking a breath that feels bigger than it should.
It's just clothes. Just changing into something comfortable.
Except it doesn't feel simple. Not here. Not with Joseph on the other side of that door, moving around the cabin in that quiet, deliberate way of his, his presence filling every corner even when he's not in the room.
I pull my sweater over my head, the fabric catching slightly on my hips before sliding free. The air is cooler against my skin than I expected, raising goosebumps along my arms and shoulders.
I fold the sweater carefully and set it aside, then reach for the thermal shirt I packed—a soft, well-worn cotton that's been washed so many times it feels like a second skin.
It slides over my head easily, the fabric stretching gently across my chest and settling around my waist and hips with a comforting weight.
The hem hits just below my waistband, and I tug it down slightly, feeling the way it drapes over my soft stomach without clinging too tight.
I step out of my jeans next, the denim stiff from the cold and the long drive, and pull on a pair of fleece-lined leggings that hug my thighs and calves without constricting.
They're warm, practical, and forgiving in all the right places.
The fabric is thick enough to feel substantial but soft enough to move with me, and I appreciate the way they settle comfortably over my curves.
Over that, I add an oversized hoodie that falls to mid-thigh and drapes loosely over my curves. The sleeves are long enough to cover my hands if I want them to, and I tug them down now, wrapping my arms around myself as the fabric settles.
Thick socks. Slippers. My hair pulled back into a loose ponytail that immediately starts to come undone, blonde strands already escaping to frame my face.
I catch my reflection in the small mirror above the dresser and pause.
My cheeks are still flushed from the cold and the warmth of dinner, and my eyes look brighter than they have in weeks. There's no makeup left and my hair is a mess, but I don't look tired anymore. I look… present.
When I step back into the main room, Joseph is crouched by the fire again, adjusting a log with the poker. The flames flare briefly, sending light dancing across his broad shoulders and the line of his back.
The flannel shirt he's wearing pulls taut across his shoulder blades as he moves, and I can see the strength in his arms, the way his body has been shaped by years of physical work.
He doesn't look up right away, but I see the slight shift in his posture, the way his hand stills for just a second before he finishes what he's doing.
I didn't dress to be noticed, I dressed to be comfortable, but the fact that he's aware of me, that he registers my presence even when he's not looking directly at me, makes my chest flutter.
I move toward the couch, my slippers making soft shuffling sounds against the worn wood floor. The boards creak slightly under my weight, and I'm hyperaware of every sound I make, every movement.
I sink into the worn leather cushions that are still warm from where I sat before, the material creaking softly as it gives beneath me. The fire crackles, and the scent of woodsmoke mingles with the lingering aromas of lemon and garlic from the meal we shared.
It's cozy in a way that feels almost too intimate, like the cabin is wrapping itself around us, holding us here in this pocket of warmth and light while the world outside grows darker and colder.
Joseph stands, brushing his hands off on his jeans, and moves to sit on the opposite end of the couch.
I notice the way he settles himself, one arm draped along the back of the couch, his body angled slightly toward the fire, but his attention is on me.
I pull my knees up, tucking my feet under me, and let myself sink deeper into the cushions. The warmth from the fire seeps into my skin, chasing away the last traces of cold that had settled into my bones during the drive.
I feel my body relax in increments—shoulders dropping, jaw unclenching, the tension I didn't realize I was carrying slowly melting away. My hands emerge from the sleeves of my hoodie to rest on my knees, and I notice how the firelight catches on my skin, turning it slightly golden.
For a few minutes, we don't speak. We just sit, watching the fire, the silence between us comfortable in a way I didn't expect.
The wind picks up outside, rattling the windows, making the glass shiver in its frame. But inside it's warm and still, and I can hear every small sound.
"You didn't have to help with dinner," Joseph says eventually, his voice low and a little rough, like he's not used to making conversation. Like the words have to travel a long distance before they reach the air.
"I wanted to."
"Still. You're paying to be here, you shouldn't have to work."
I smile at that, turning my head to look at him more fully. "I still would have needed to if I were here alone."
He glances at me, one eyebrow raised, and I catch the faintest hint of amusement in his expression, a softening around his eyes, the corner of his mouth lifting almost imperceptibly. "Fair enough."
I shift slightly, turning toward him more fully, my knee brushing against the cushion between us. "Besides, I liked it. Cooking with you. It felt… normal. Good normal."
He doesn't respond right away, but I see his face shift into something softer, less guarded. The wall he keeps up seems to lower just a fraction, and I catch a glimpse of the man underneath all that careful control.
He looks back at the fire, and I watch the way the light plays across his features, highlighting the strong line of his jaw, the shadow of his beard, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes that suggest he smiles more than he lets on, even if it's only when he's alone.
"I don't get a lot of company out here," he admits quietly, and there's something vulnerable in the admission, like he's offering me a piece of himself he doesn't usually share.
"By choice?"
"Mostly."
I nod, letting that settle between us.
I understand the impulse to retreat, to protect yourself by keeping people at a distance.
I've done it too, in my own way. Not by moving to the mountains, but by lowering my expectations, by convincing myself that being alone is easier than being disappointed.
By telling myself that if I don't expect much, I can't be hurt when people leave.
"I get that," I say softly. "Sometimes it's easier to just… not."
He looks at me then, and I feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing. His eyes are darker, almost bronze, and I can see the questions in them even if he doesn't voice them.
"Why are you here?" he asks finally.
The question catches me off guard, even though it shouldn't. It's a fair question. I'm alone on Valentine's Day, staying in a remote cabin in the middle of nowhere. Of course he's curious.
I take a breath, letting it out slowly, watching the way the firelight flickers across the walls. "Honestly? I needed a break. From… everything. The city. Work. The whole Valentine's Day thing."
"You don't like Valentine's Day?"
"I don't like what it represents. Or what it's supposed to represent, anyway.
" I pull the sleeves of my hoodie over my hands, wrapping my arms around my knees.
The fabric is soft against my palms. "It's supposed to be about love and connection, but mostly it just feels like a reminder of what I don't have.
Like the world is celebrating something I keep reaching for and missing. "
He's quiet for a moment, and I wonder if I've said too much, if I've made this awkward, if he thinks I'm pathetic for admitting that I'm alone and tired of it.
But then he nods, slow and deliberate, his jaw working slightly. "Yeah. I know that feeling."
I glance at him, and he's staring into the fire, his expression unreadable but his shoulders tight with tension.
"You've been alone out here for twelve years," I say carefully. "That's a long time."
He doesn't answer right away. I almost take the question back, worried I've pushed too far. But then he speaks, his voice quieter, rougher. "Loneliness is easier than the alternative."
"What's the alternative?"
"Letting someone in. Giving them the chance to leave."
I understand that fear more than I want to admit. The fear of being chosen temporarily, of being someone's stepping stone instead of their destination. The fear of opening yourself up completely only to watch them walk away because you weren't quite what they were looking for.
"I've been there," I say softly. "The leaving part. Not the one doing the leaving, the one getting left."
He looks at me again, and this time there's something raw in his expression, something that makes my throat tighten and my eyes sting.
"What happened?" he asks, and the gentleness in his voice almost undoes me.
I shrug, trying to keep my voice light even though the subject isn't. "The usual.
I dated men who liked me fine but didn't love me enough to stay.
Men who treated me like I was temporary.
Like I was the fun distraction before they found someone they actually wanted to keep.
" I pause, swallowing hard. "I was always the woman they dated while they figured themselves out.
Never the one they chose when they were ready. "
"That's not—" He stops himself, shaking his head, his hand curling into a fist on his knee. "That's their loss."
The words are simple, but the conviction behind them makes my chest ache.
I smile, even though it feels a little wobbly.
"Thanks. But it still sucks, you know? Feeling like you're always second choice.
Like you're not quite enough. Like if you were just a little bit different—a little thinner, a little quieter, a little less—maybe then someone would actually want to keep you. "
"You're enough."
He says it so matter-of-factly, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, and I have to look away because the intensity of his gaze is too much.
My eyes burn, and I blink rapidly, refusing to cry in front of this man I barely know.
I want to believe him. I want to believe that I'm enough, that someone could see me and want me without reservation. But years of evidence to the contrary make it hard.
"I'm cold," I say suddenly, needing to shift the conversation before I start crying or saying something I'll regret. My voice sounds too bright, too forced, but Joseph doesn't call me on it.
He stands without a word and moves to a small chest by the wall. He pulls out a thick plaid shirt and holds it out to me.
"Here."
I take it, the fabric warm and surprisingly heavy in my hands. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
I slip it on over my hoodie. It smells like him, makes me want to pull the collar up to my nose and breathe deeply, and I have to resist the urge to bury my face in it.
The flannel is soft from years of wear. I can feel the warmth of it immediately, and it's not just the physical warmth, it's also the intimacy of wearing something that belongs to him, something that's touched his skin, something that carries his scent and his presence.
When I look up, Joseph is watching me, and there's something in his expression that makes my breath catch. Something heated and restrained, like he's holding himself back.
His eyes track over me slowly and I see his jaw tighten, his fingers flex against his thigh.
"Better?" he asks, his voice rougher than before, almost hoarse.
"Yeah."
He sits back down, closer this time, and I feel the warmth of him even though we're not touching.
I lean back against the cushions, letting the warmth of the fire and the weight of the flannel shirt settle over me. My body feels heavy, relaxed, and I realize that I haven't felt this comfortable in a long time.
Joseph shifts slightly, and his knee brushes mine. It's a small thing, barely noticeable, but the contact sends a jolt of awareness through me. The heat of him seeps through the fabric, and I feel it all the way to my bones.
I don't move away. Neither does he.
We sit like that for a while, close but not quite touching, the fire crackling between us and the night pressing in around the cabin.
I can hear the wind outside, the creak of the trees, the soft hiss of snow against the windows. But inside, it's warm and quiet and still, and I feel protected, held.
"Thank you," I say eventually, my voice barely above a whisper.
"For what?"
"For letting me stay. And for not making this weird."
He looks at me, and there's something soft in his expression, something that makes my heart squeeze. "It's not weird."
"It could be."
"But it's not."
I smile, and this time it feels genuine, unguarded. "No. It's not."
He holds my gaze for a long moment, and I feel the undeniable pull between us.