2. Two
Two
Scarlett
I've officially lost my mind.
Because instead of panicking like any rational person would, I'm following a grizzly bear of a man like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like stumbling onto a stranger's property in the middle of a storm is just another Tuesday.
Sawyer. That's his name, though he didn't offer it. I caught it carved into a weathered mailbox at the edge of his trail—right before I ducked under a fallen tree and prayed I wasn't trespassing on some serial killer's hunting ground.
He hasn't said a word since he offered to help. Just strides ahead with those impossibly broad shoulders and that quiet, contained strength, like he's part of the mountain itself. Like he grew here among the pines and granite outcroppings.
And honestly? He kind of looks like he did.
Everything about him screams wild and untamed.
The thick, dark beard that's never seen a barber.
The worn leather boots that have walked these trails a thousand times.
The scowl that seems permanently etched into his features.
If a flannel-clad lumberjack and a lone wolf had a baby, it would be this guy.
And yet… I don't feel scared.
I probably should. I'm following a complete stranger into the wilderness, soaking wet, bleeding, with no cell service and no one expecting me home tonight. Every true crime podcast I've ever listened to is screaming warnings in my head.
But something about Sawyer feels solid. Grounded. Like if the world were ending tomorrow, he'd be the guy who already had firewood stacked, soup simmering on the stove, and a plan for surviving whatever came next.
He opens the door and holds it for me, and I step inside—into another world entirely.
Warm. Quiet. Safe.
The air smells like cedar and coffee and something faintly spicy that might be cinnamon or might just be him.
Everything is handmade, built from solid wood that's been worn smooth by years of use. The furniture is sturdy, masculine, beautiful in its simplicity. A stone fireplace dominates one wall, flames crackling behind an iron screen. Bookshelves line another, filled with volumes that look like they’ve actually been read instead of just displayed.
It's exactly what I would have imagined if someone had asked me to picture a mountain man's cabin. And yet it's nothing like I expected. There's something almost gentle about it. Welcoming.
Like him , I'm beginning to realize.
He disappears into what I assume is the kitchen without explanation. I just stand there, dripping onto his wide-plank floors and hugging myself until he returns with a thick towel and a dented metal first-aid kit that looks like it's seen plenty of use.
"Sit," he says, nodding toward a leather sofa positioned near the fire.
I do, biting back a wince as I lower myself down. My leg throbs where the cut is, and now that the adrenaline's starting to fade, I'm realizing exactly how cold and exhausted I am.
He kneels in front of me without ceremony, takes my muddy boot in his big, calloused hands, and starts unlacing it with surprising gentleness. I freeze, suddenly hyperaware of every point of contact between us.
"Relax," he mutters without looking up. "I'm not going to bite."
God help me, I kind of wish you would.
The thought comes out of nowhere, inappropriate and unwelcome. I blame it on exhaustion. On the surreal nature of this entire situation. On the way his hands move with such careful precision, like he's done this before.
He peels off my boot with the same methodical care, sets it aside, then does the same with the other. His hands are warm despite the chill in the air, rough with calluses but gentle in their touch. The kind of hands that know how to fix things. Build things. Protect things.
Break things, if they have to.
I'm not sure what that says about me, but I don't want him to stop touching me.
He sets my boots aside and opens the first-aid kit, pulling out gauze and a brown bottle of antiseptic that looks older than I am.
"This might sting," he says, finally glancing up at me.
His eyes are the color of storm clouds. Not angry but intense. Watchful. Like he sees more than I want him to. More than I know how to hide.
"Go for it," I say, trying for a smile. "Pain builds character, right?"
Something shifts in his expression. Not quite a smile, but close. The corners of his mouth twitch upward for just a second. I count it as a personal victory.
He dabs at the cut, and I flinch anyway despite my bravado. He doesn't apologize, just works in steady silence until the bleeding's stopped and a clean bandage is securely in place. When he's done, he leans back on his heels and looks at me again.
"You're lucky," he says.
I snort, surprising myself with the sound. "I got caught in a storm and nearly fell off a cliff avoiding that rockslide.”
And now I’m alone with a stranger who looks like he might be hiding from federal authorities.
His brow lifts just slightly. "Could've been worse."
"You're not going to murder me and bury me in the woods, are you?"
His head tilts, considering this with what appears to be complete seriousness. "Wouldn't be very hospitable, would it?"
Something about the way he says it—completely deadpan, like he's actually weighing the social implications of hypothetical murder—makes me laugh harder than I have in weeks.
And once I start, I can't stop. Exhaustion and relief and the sheer absurdity of the situation bubble up and out of me in waves.
Sawyer just watches, expression unreadable, until the laughter fades and I wipe my eyes with the corner of the towel.
"I'm sorry," I murmur, suddenly embarrassed. "It's been an interesting day."
He stands and moves to the fireplace, stoking it with an iron poker and adding another log. The flames jump higher, casting his face in golden light and shadow. God, he’s beautiful.
"You hungry?" he asks.
I hesitate. I don't want to impose more than I already have. "Is it too much trouble?"
He glances over his shoulder at me. "If it was, I wouldn't have asked."
Right. Of course. He's not the type to do anything he doesn't want to do. Everything about him suggests a man who's stripped his life down to essentials, who doesn't waste time or energy on politeness for its own sake.
I think I kind of admire that.
Sawyer moves around the kitchen like he's choreographed this dance a thousand times—pots clanking softly, water running, the sizzle of something hitting a hot pan.
The smells that drift toward me are rich and comforting.
I don't know what I expected a hermit to eat. Beans from a can, maybe. But whatever he’s making is making my mouth water.
"Hope you're not vegetarian," he says without looking up from whatever he's stirring.
“I’m not,” I assure him.
A few minutes later, he sets two mismatched bowls on a small wooden table near the window. Steam rises from both, carrying the scent of herbs and meat and something that makes my stomach clench with sudden, desperate hunger.
I limp over and sit, still wrapped in the towel, my hair still dripping slightly. I don't even care that I must look like a drowned rat. The stew tastes like heaven. Like the kind of meal that sticks to your ribs and your memory in equal measure.
For a while, we just eat in companionable silence.
The quiet settles over us. Thick with unspoken questions. He doesn't ask what I was doing hiking alone, and I don't ask why a man like him chooses to live up here like some bearded hermit from a cautionary tale.
But eventually, curiosity gets the better of me.
"Do you live out here all the time?" I ask, spoon halfway to my mouth.
He nods. "For the past ten years."
"Ten? Wow." I blink, trying to imagine it. "I don't think I've done anything for ten years straight. Not even floss regularly."
That earns me another almost-smile. Progress.
"Why?" I ask, softer now. "If you don't mind me asking."
He doesn't answer right away. Just stares into his bowl like the meat and potatoes hold the secret to life, the universe, and everything.
"Got tired of the noise," he says finally. "People. Expectations. The world telling me who I was supposed to be."
I nod slowly, understanding more than he probably realizes. "Yeah. I think I get that."
He looks at me then. Really looks. Like he's trying to figure out what kind of noise I've been running from. What expectations drove me up this mountain with a storm on the horizon.
I wish I knew how to explain it. I wasn't trying to be reckless. I just needed space. Silence. A minute to breathe without someone telling me I should be grateful for my life, my job, my apartment that feels more like a pretty prison every day.
And somehow, following a trail that was supposed to lead to a scenic overlook, I ended up here. With him.
The wind howls outside like a living thing. The fire crackles and pops behind us. And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I don't feel so desperately alone.