Chapter 2
Chapter two
Davin
I’ve been watching her for three weeks.
Not in a way that would make her uncomfortable. Not lurking or following. Just noticing. The way a man notices when something shifts in his world, and suddenly everything else goes quiet.
It started at the bookstore. I’d gone in for coffee, and she was there talking to Mika about her new shop.
Her voice held that particular kind of exhaustion that comes from carrying too much alone for too long.
She laughed when Mika suggested asking for help, but the sound was brittle and defensive.
I stood at the counter with my coffee cooling in my hand and watched her gesture at the empty storefront across the square. Watched her explain her vision with hands that moved too fast. Watched her shoulders curve inward when she mentioned the furniture she couldn’t move alone.
And a certainty that had been dormant since the fire inside me woke up and said: her.
Not a question. Not a maybe. Just recognition, immediate and absolute.
I found reasons after that. Walking past her shop with lumber for job sites.
Stopping at the Waffle Den when her car was parked outside.
I watched her struggle with boxes too heavy, her back arching under the weight.
Every time, the urge to step in became a physical ache in my gut.
But a man doesn’t just walk up to a woman and announce he’s decided she’s his. Not in a way that feels safe.
So I waited for the right moment. And when Evelyn mentioned the auction, I knew I’d found it.
Now she’s in my truck, and the satisfaction of having her here is so profound it’s almost painful.
The drive up the mountain requires focus. The snow is falling harder now, fat flakes that catch in the headlights and make the world beyond the beams disappear. The chains on my tires bite into the packed snow with a rhythmic crunch that vibrates through the steering wheel.
Beside me, Tilly shifts in her seat. Her scent fills the cab. It’s clean and warm with an undertone of lavender soap.
“You really heard me talking to Mika?” she asks.
“I did.”
“And you entered the auction just because of that?”
I consider how much truth to give her. “I heard you needed help. Figured I could provide it.”
“That’s not the whole story.”
Smart. Of course she is. I glance at her briefly. “No. It’s not.”
She waits, and the silence stretches between us. She’s deciding whether to push.
“I’ve seen you working,” I say finally. “Watched you carry more than you should. It didn’t sit right.”
“So this is... what? Pity?”
My jaw tightens. “No. This is me recognizing someone who’s been told she has to do everything herself and deciding she doesn’t have to anymore.”
Her breath catches. The sound travels through me, settling low in my spine.
“You don’t know me,” she says, but her voice has lost its edge.
“I know enough.” I take the next curve slowly. “I know you’re smart enough to plan a business, but too stubborn to ask for help when you need it. I know you work until you’re running on fumes. I know you deserve better than what you’ve been giving yourself.”
“That’s a lot of assumptions.”
“They’re not assumptions.” I pull onto my driveway. “They’re observations.”
The cabin comes into view, and my pulse kicks up. I’ve never brought a woman here before. This space has been mine alone since I left the firehouse. But having her here feels right in a way that bypasses logic entirely.
I park close to the door and kill the engine. Snow falls in the headlights’ dying glow.
“I need to be clear about something,” she says. “I’m not here for a romantic weekend. I’m here because I need furniture moved. That’s all.”
“I heard you the first time.”
“And that’s okay with you?”
I turn to face her fully. She’s watching me with those sharp, tired eyes, waiting for disappointment or argument.
“Tilly.” I keep my voice low, steady. “You’re here because you need help, and I can provide it. What happens beyond that is your choice. All of it. Every step. You set the pace. You decide what this is.”
Her lips part slightly. Her hands unclench from her thighs. Her body responds to the promise of safety, tension bleeding from her shoulders in increments.
“Okay,” she whispers.
I get out and move around to her side. The cold bites at my face and hands. I open her door and offer my hand, and when she takes it, the contact sends heat straight to my throat.
Her palm is smaller than mine, cold from the drive, and when I help her down, she stumbles slightly. My free hand settles on her waist. She’s soft and curved, where I’m hard angles, and she fits against my side like she was designed for exactly this position. Her head barely reaches my shoulder.
She looks up at me, snowflakes catching in her dark hair. Her breath is visible in the cold air between us, quick and shallow. My thumb brushes across her knuckles. Her eyes widen.
I make myself release her hand and reach for the bag in the truck bed.
“Let’s get you inside.”
The cabin’s warmth hits us as soon as I open the door. I built this place myself over two years. It’s not large, just the main room with the kitchen along one wall, the bedroom and bathroom beyond, but it’s solid. Safe. Mine.
She takes it in slowly. The stone fireplace I salvaged from a demolished church. The furniture I built from trees I felled and milled myself.
“You built all this?” she asks, moving toward the dining table, her fingers trailing across the smooth wood surface.
“Most of it. Table, chairs, bed frame. Cabinets.” I move to the fireplace and add wood to the embers. “Keeps me busy.”
“It’s beautiful.”
The word does something to my throat.
I straighten and turn to find her watching me.
“You’re cold,” I say. “Sit by the fire. I’ll make coffee.”
She moves to the couch without argument. She’s tired enough to accept care, even if she doesn’t know how to ask for it.
I fill the kettle and set it on the stove, measuring coffee into the French press. Behind me, I hear her sigh, a sound of relief so profound it makes my throat ache.
I glance over my shoulder and see her leaning back into the cushions, her eyes closed, her body finally starting to unwind.
She’s here. In my space. Safe.
The kettle whistles. I pour the water and let the coffee steep. When I bring two mugs over, she’s watching the fire.
“Thank you,” she says when I hand her the mug. Her fingers wrap around the ceramic, and she brings it to her face, breathing in the steam.
Settling into the chair across from her, I give her space even though everything in me wants to close the distance. “You need to eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“When did you eat last?”
She frowns into her coffee. “Breakfast. Maybe.”
I stand and move to the kitchen. There’s bread I baked two days ago, cheese, apples, salami, and pickles from the farmer’s market. I put together a plate and bring it back.
“Davin—”
“Eat.” I keep my tone gentle but firm. “You can argue with me after you’ve had food.”
She picks up a slice of apple and bites into it. The small act of surrender makes satisfaction curl warm in my gut.
Returning to my chair, I watch her eat. She does it slowly at first, then faster, her body recognizing what it needs. Her throat works as she swallows. She finishes half the plate before she seems to remember I’m watching.
“Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t realize I was that hungry.” She takes a sip of coffee.
“Don’t apologize.” Leaning forward, elbows on my knees, I hold her gaze. “You’ve been running on empty for too long.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” The fire crackles between us. “I know what burnout looks like. I know what it feels like to push yourself past breaking because stopping feels like giving up.”
Her expression shifts. Recognition, maybe. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”
“I am.”
She sets her mug down. “What happened?”
The question is gentle, not prying. I could deflect. But if I want her to trust me, I need to give her real pieces of myself.
“I was a firefighter. Worked in Billings for fifteen years.” I glance at the flames in the fireplace. “I left after a bad call, came here, and built this place. I worked on building a life around the guilt instead of letting it bury me.”
She doesn’t rush to fill the silence with empty comfort.
“I’m sorry,” she says finally.
“Me too.” I look at her. “Still working on it.”
She nods, her eyes distant for a moment before they focus on me again. “Is that why you’re so...” She trails off, searching for the word.
“Protective?”
“I was going to say ‘bossy,’ but protective works.”
The corner of my mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “Maybe both.”
“I don’t need protecting.”
“Everyone needs protecting sometimes. Even the strong ones. Especially the strong ones.”
Her breath catches again, that small hitch that tells me I’ve landed on a truth she’s been denying. She looks away, back to the fire, and I give her the space to sit with it.
The storm howls outside. Inside this cabin, we’re insulated from everything.
“I should probably get some sleep,” she says, but she doesn’t move.
“Bedroom’s through there.” I nod toward the door behind me. “Take it. I’ll sleep out here.”
“I can’t take your bed.”
“You can and you will.” I stand and move to the closet, pulling out extra blankets and a pillow. “I’ve slept on this couch more times than I can count.”
“Davin—”
I turn to face her, and the protest dies on her lips. “You’re exhausted. You need real sleep in a real bed. This isn’t negotiable.”
She studies me, then her shoulders drop. “Okay.”
I show her to the bedroom. It’s simple, clean, the bed I built from oak with my own hands. I set fresh towels on the dresser and step back. “Bathroom’s through there. Everything you need should be in the cabinet.”
She stands in the doorway, looking small and curvy in the space, and a possessive heat flares so hot in my throat I have to shove my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For all of this.”
“You don’t need to thank me.”
“I do, though. Most people wouldn’t—” She stops herself. The hesitation carries history.
“I’m not most people.” I hold her gaze. “And you’re not a burden, Tilly. Not to me. Not ever.”
Her throat works. She blinks rapidly. “I should sleep.”
“Yeah. You should.”
She steps into the room and starts to close the door, then pauses. “Davin?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you shut down the auction.”
The words carry a weight I didn’t expect. Before I can think better of it, I cross the threshold into the bedroom. She goes still, her hand on the door, her eyes wide as I approach. I stop close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet my gaze.
“So am I,” I say, my voice low and rough.
Her lips part on an inhale. I lift one hand slowly, giving her time to step back, to tell me no. She doesn’t move. My palm cups her jaw, thumb brushing across her cheekbone. Her skin is soft and warm under my touch. Her eyes flutter closed for a heartbeat before opening again, darker now, waiting.
I lower my head and kiss her.
Slow. Deliberate. Grounding her with the pressure of my mouth against hers.
She makes a sound low in her throat. Her hands come up to grip my forearms, fingers digging in through the fabric of my shirt.
She doesn’t push me away. I angle her head with my hand and deepen the kiss just enough to taste coffee and apples and something sweet underneath.
Her body sways toward mine. My free hand goes to her soft waist, steadying her, and the curve of her hip under my palm wakes up my cock.
I force myself to pull back, stopping before my control breaks and I take more than she’s offering. Her eyes are still closed, her breathing uneven, her fingers still gripping my arms.
“Get some sleep,” I say, my voice rougher than before.
Her eyes open slowly. “Davin—”
“Sleep, Tilly.” I step back. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
She nods, still looking dazed, and I turn and walk out. I close the door softly behind me and stand there, listening to the quiet sounds of her moving around the room.
My hands are shaking. I press them flat against the door, feeling the solid wood under my palms.
I build up the fire and settle onto the couch with a blanket. My mind replays the evening, her hand in mine, the way her body relaxed when I promised her a choice, the moment she admitted she was glad I’d claimed her. The taste of her mouth. The small sound she made when I kissed her.
Tomorrow I’ll show her I meant every word. Tomorrow I’ll start building the foundation for keeping her.
But tonight, she’s here. Safe. Warm. Resting in my bed after kissing me like she’d been waiting for it as long as I had.
For the first time since the fire, hope doesn’t feel dangerous.