Chapter 16-Daniela
I shouldn’t be watching him.
But I am.
Hudson—I should be calling him Tank, though—is trudging through the snow like some mythic woodsman, hauling firewood like it’s nothing, jacket dusted in powder, breath misting in the freezing air.
His head is down, jaw tight, body moving like every task is a mission.
Focused. Efficient. Quiet.
Too quiet.
After everything—the whipped cream, the fireplace, the shower, the way we devoured each other last night like we were starving—it’s almost disorienting, how normal he’s acting now.
Professional.
Polite.
Distant.
Just like I asked.
Just like I wanted.
But did I? Or is that just what I told myself I did?
Because the truth?
The truth is those last two nights meant more to me than they should have.
More than they were supposed to.
And if I’m going to survive the rest of this weekend—and return to Consequence with my career, my pride, and my heart intact—I have to put up some walls.
Reinforce the boundary between personal and professional.
Even if it kills me.
So I keep my eyes on the screen in front of me, editing videos and pretending not to notice every time the cabin door creaks open and closes again.
Pretending not to feel his presence, warm and steady, like a gravity field I can’t escape.
He doesn’t touch me.
Doesn’t flirt.
Doesn’t hover.
Instead, he gives me what I said I needed.
Space.
And it’s so fucking awful.
By noon, the cabin smells like turkey and something savory, and my stomach growls like a traitor.
I didn’t even realize how hungry I was until just now.
I shut my laptop and stretch, glancing toward the kitchen—then freeze.
Hudson’s there.
He’s got two mugs of soup steaming on the counter, a plate of grilled turkey and cheese sandwiches beside them.
The man made lunch.
From leftovers. With zero fanfare.
“Did you cook?” I start, voice barely above a whisper.
“Soup’s on,” he says, back still to me as he stirs a pot with a wooden spoon like he’s done this a hundred times.
“You did all this?”
He shrugs one shoulder.
“It’s just soup and sandwiches. Figured you might be hungry.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
Because yes, I’m hungry—but not just for food.
I cross the room slowly, cautiously, trying not to read too much into this.
But when he turns around and catches me looking, I swear I see it—just for a second—that heat in his eyes again.
That simmering, banked fire.
But he doesn’t say anything.
Just passes me a bowl like this is all perfectly normal.
I accept it, fingers brushing his.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
We eat in silence.
It’s not uncomfortable.
But it’s not easy either.
There’s a tension now—a slow, humming ache I can’t name.
Like a wound I’m trying not to pick at.
I watch him across the table, bare-chested beneath his unbuttoned flannel shirt, hair damp from melting snow, eyes on his food like he’s trying not to look at me.
Like he’s trying to be good.
And maybe that’s what scares me the most.
Because if Tank Jackson is capable of restraint?
I’m in real trouble.