Chapter 6 – Joseph
The storm has passed, I can tell by the quality of the silence outside, the way the wind has stopped its relentless howling.
Pale morning light filters through the window, softened by the thick layer of snow still clinging to the glass.
Demi's curled against me, her back pressed to my chest, one of my arms draped over her waist. Her hair is a mess of blonde tangles spread across my pillow, and I can smell the faint scent of her shampoo.
The warmth of her body against mine feels impossibly right, like this is how mornings are supposed to be.
I should feel panic. I should feel the familiar urge to retreat, to put distance between myself and this vulnerability.
But I don't.
Instead, I feel steady. Like something that's been loose inside me for years has finally clicked into place.
Demi shifts slightly, making a small sound in her sleep, and my arm tightens around her instinctively.
She wakes slowly, stretching like a cat, her body pressing back against mine in a way that makes my breath catch. Then she turns in my arms, her eyes still heavy with sleep, and smiles at me.
"Morning," she murmurs, her voice rough and soft.
"Morning."
"Did you sleep?"
"Eventually."
She laughs quietly, the sound warm and intimate. "Me too."
We lie there for a moment, just looking at each other, and I'm struck by how easy this feels. How natural.
There's no awkwardness, no regret, no careful distance.
"I'm starving," she says finally, and I feel myself smile.
"Yeah. Me too."
We get up slowly, pulling on clothes in the cold morning air, our movements unhurried and comfortable. She's still wearing my flannel shirt over her thermal, and seeing her in my clothes does something to me that I don't have words for.
The cabin is cold enough that I can see our breath as we move toward the kitchen. I stoke the fire first, adding logs and watching the flames catch and grow, feeling the warmth begin to push back the chill.
Demi stands close, holding her hands out toward the heat, and I move behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her back against my chest.
"Better?" I ask, my voice low near her ear.
"Much."
We stay like that for a moment, and I feel her relax into me, trusting and easy. It's such a small thing, but it feels monumental. The fact that she fits here, in my space, in my arms, in my life… It's overwhelming in the best way.
"What do you want for breakfast?" I ask eventually, forcing myself to step back before I get too lost in the feeling of her.
"Everything. I'm not kidding—I could eat a horse right now."
I laugh, and it feels good. Easy. "How about pancakes, eggs, bacon, and coffee?"
"Perfect."
We move into the kitchen together, and the domesticity of it hits me immediately. She knows where I keep things now—the plates, the mugs, the spatula. She doesn't ask permission; she just moves, pulling out what we need, filling the coffee pot with water, setting the stove to heat.
We work around each other seamlessly, our bodies passing close, hands brushing, touches that no longer feel tentative or accidental.
I mix the pancake batter while she starts the bacon, the smell of it sizzling in the cast iron pan filling the cabin with a rich, savory warmth.
The coffee begins to percolate, adding its own comforting aroma to the mix. Steam rises from the pan, catching the morning light, and I can hear the soft pop and hiss of fat rendering.
"I'm so sore," Demi says suddenly, laughing as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. "In the best way, but still."
I glance at her, heat rising in my chest. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." She grins at me over her shoulder, her eyes bright with mischief and satisfaction. "Worth it, though."
"Definitely worth it."
She laughs again, and the sound fills the cabin in a way that makes it feel less like a shelter and more like a home.
I pour the first pancake onto the griddle, watching it bubble and brown, and I'm acutely aware of her beside me.
The way she hums softly under her breath as she flips the bacon.
The way she reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear.
The way she looks completely at ease in my space, like she's been here for years instead of hours.
I really don't want her to leave.
It's not just that I enjoyed last night, though I did, more than I can articulate. It's not just that she's beautiful or kind or funny or any of the other things I've noticed over the past hours.
It's that she fits.
She fits in this cabin, in this life, in the quiet spaces I've spent years convincing myself I preferred empty.
She doesn't try to change me or fix me or make me into something I'm not. She just exists beside me, easy and present and real, and somehow that's more terrifying than anything I've ever faced.
Because wanting her to stay means risking her leaving.
"Joseph?"
Her voice pulls me back, and I realize I've been staring at the pancake, which is starting to burn around the edges. I flip it quickly, cursing under my breath, and she laughs.
"Where'd you go just now?"
"Nowhere. Just thinking."
"About?"
I don't answer right away. I finish the pancakes and eggs while she plates the bacon, and we sit down at the small table with our food spread between us.
The cabin is warmer now, the fire crackling steadily, and outside the world is white and still.
We eat, and I watch her. The way she closes her eyes when she takes the first bite, savoring it. The way she reaches for her coffee and wraps both hands around the mug, soaking in the warmth.
"You could leave today if you wanted to," I say finally, setting down my fork.
She looks up at me, her expression unreadable. "Is that what you want?"
"No."
The word comes out more forcefully than I intend, and I see her eyes widen slightly. I take a breath, forcing myself to slow down, to say this right.
"No," I repeat, quieter this time. "That's not what I want."
"Then what do you want?"
I look at her and I realize that I've spent years avoiding this exact moment. The moment where I have to choose vulnerability over safety.
"I want you to stay," I say, and my voice is rough but steady. "Not because of the storm. Not because of what happened last night. I want you to stay because I don't want this to end. I don't want you to be a guest or a mistake or something temporary. I want you here with me. As my girlfriend."
The words feel clumsy and too simple for the weight of what I'm feeling, but they're honest.
Demi sets down her mug, and for a terrible second I think I've miscalculated, that I've asked for too much too soon.
But then she smiles this beautiful, unguarded smile, and she reaches across the table to take my hand.
"I came here to heal," she says softly. "To get away from everything and just… breathe. I thought I needed space and quiet and time alone to figure out what I wanted."
My heart is pounding, and I'm not sure if I'm breathing.
"But I was wrong," she continues. "I didn't need space. I needed this, I needed you. I came here expecting to be alone, and instead I found home."
The word hits me like a punch.
"I want to stay," she says, her fingers tightening around mine. "Not just for today or a week or until the novelty wears off. I want to stay because this… it feels right. It feels real."
I can't speak. I don't trust my voice not to break.
So instead, I stand and pull her up with me, wrapping my arms around her and holding her tight. She buries her face in my chest, and I feel her arms come around my waist, holding on just as tightly.
"I'm scared," I admit quietly, the words muffled against her hair.
"Me too."
"But I want this."
"So do I."
We stand like that for a long time, wrapped in each other, the cabin warm around us and the world quiet outside. And for the first time in twelve years, I don't feel like I'm hiding.
I feel like I'm home.
Later, after we finish breakfast and clean up together, we step outside into the cold morning air.
The world is blinding white, the snow thick and untouched except for the path I cleared yesterday. The sky is pale blue, and the sun is just beginning to break through the trees, casting long shadows across the snow.
Demi stands beside me, her hand in mine, and we look out at the mountain together.
"It's beautiful," she says softly.
"Yeah. It is."
But I'm not looking at the mountain. I'm looking at her.
She turns to me, catching my gaze, and smiles. "What?"
"Nothing. Just… I'm glad you're here."
"Me too."
The mountain is still wild. The winters are still harsh. The isolation is still real.
But I'm not alone anymore.