Chapter 4
Pike
By the time we step back into the cabin, the storm has grown heavier again. Snow slants past the window in thick curtains, and the wind carries a low, steady moan through the eaves. It's the kind of weather that usually calms me. A barrier between me and the world.
But with Emory here, the silence feels different. Charged. Expectant. Like something is building in the space we're sharing.
She moves toward the fireplace and unwraps the blanket, draping it over the back of the couch to warm. Her cheeks still hold a faint flush from the workshop heat. Her hair is slightly mussed.
I shouldn't notice any of that. I do anyway.
"You okay?" I ask.
She looks back at me. "Yes. Just… taking it all in."
"Most people don't like being in the warehouse. Being that close to so much heat."
"I liked it," she says quietly. "I liked seeing you work.”
Her answer pulls something taut inside my chest. She isn't afraid of fire. Or quiet. Or me.
It's been a long time since someone fit into my space without overwhelming it.
I pull myself away from that thought and check the woodpile. "I’ll need to bring in more logs soon."
She nods, then watches me for a moment in a way that makes my heartrate speed up. It's not scrutiny this time. It's curiosity mixed with something softer and far more dangerous.
"You haven’t always lived up here alone,” she says.
“What makes you say that?” I ask.
“Well, you had to learn your art somewhere. So, you must have at least gone to school somewhere.”
Her voice isn't pushy. She sounds like she honestly wants to understand. But I can’t forget that she’s a reporter.
“Still looking for a story?” I ask quietly.
She shakes her head. “This is off the record. I just want to know you.”
I consider brushing off the question, but she's earned more than that. She was careful in the workshop. She listened. She treated my work like it mattered, not like a story to exploit. And she's here because she took a risk. A stupid one, but a brave one. I can’t help but admire that.
"I went to school in Nashville, and I lived there for several years," I finally say.
"I hated feeling crowded. People made too many assumptions about what I should be doing.
What kind of art I should be making. How fast. How much.
They wanted to turn my craft into a factory line. A moneymaking machine."
She sits down slowly, letting the blanket pool around her. "So, you chose to move to the mountains?"
"I chose to find a place where I could have total creative control."
"And solitude?"
My lips quirk into a smile. "That too."
She studies me again, but this time her eyes hold a softness that unsettles me. "You don't seem unhappy here."
"I'm not."
"But you seem… lonely."
The word hits harder than it should. Not because she's wrong, but because I've spent years pretending otherwise.
Lonely is the reason her presence unsettles me. Lonely is the reason her smile caught me off guard. Lonely is the reason I reacted so fast when she almost touched the hot metal.
And lonely is the reason it feels too easy to imagine what it would be like if she stayed.
I clear my throat, needing a distraction. "I go to town on occasion. I like Mercury Ridge. Everyone minds their own business there.”
“It does seem like a friendly town,” she says.
My stomach growls, alerting me to the fact that it’s been a while since I’ve eaten. “We should eat dinner. I can make soup."
She smiles. "I won't argue with that."
I heat the pot on the stove—chicken and vegetables, nothing fancy—while she curls her legs onto the couch. The moment feels strangely domestic. Familiar in a way it shouldn't be.
When I bring her a bowl and sit across from her with mine, she eats quietly, glancing up at me every few minutes as though she's trying to read between the lines.
I know the moment she notices the problem.
Her gaze flicks toward the sleeping arrangements.
"One bed," she says softly. "I didn't realize."
"I'll take the couch," I answer before she can say anything else.
She hesitates. "You don't have to do that."
"Nonsense. You’ll be more comfortable in the bed.”
She runs her thumb along the rim of her bowl. "You let me stay in your home. You made sure I was warm. You kept me from burning my fingers off in the workshop. I can handle a couch."
"You're my guest," I insist.
She sets her bowl aside and meets my eyes. "Are you sure?"
"Yes," I say, firmly.
Because the truth is, the couch won't be the problem.
The problem is it’ll kill me to have her so close… but so far.
The problem is that I'll hear her shifting in the bed all night.
The problem is the part of me that doesn't want distance from her at all.
I stand and take our dishes to the sink, needing something to focus on. When I turn back, she's still watching me with that soft, knowing expression that makes it hard to look away.
"You don't have to keep your guard up all the time, you know," she says.
"I'm not."
"You are," she replies gently. "It's all right. I just… I want you to know you don't have to."
My pulse stirs again. I'm not used to someone seeing straight through me. It's unsettling. It's dangerous.
And yet I don't want her to stop.
Outside, the wind finally dies down. Inside, the air thickens with something warm and intimate. She stands, moves closer to the firelight, and the glow from the hearth softens the edges of her features, catches the gold in her hair.
For several seconds, neither of us speaks.
The quiet feels heavier now. Charged.
Not empty at all.
I take a slow breath, steady and deep, then force myself to step back.
"We should rest," I say. "It'll be a long day tomorrow."
She nods, though her eyes hold a question she doesn't voice.
I tell myself the couch will be fine.
I tell myself distance is smart.
I tell myself she's leaving when the road clears.
But none of those things feel as certain as they did before.
For the first time in a long time, the cabin doesn't feel like mine alone.
And I'm no longer sure I want it to.