Chapter 3
Color in the Silence
Kate
Afew hours earlier.
The moment Maxwell's car disappears down the dirt road, the silence slams into me like a wall.
Just me, the trees, and the cabin that looks like it gave up on life sometime in the eighties.
I grab my neon-pink suitcase and drag it inside.
The bedroom is worse than I expected.
A bare mattress on a metal frame that looks older than me.
No comforter. No pillows. Just a sad, striped surface that probably hasn't seen a guest since the Reagan administration.
Bare wood walls. A single window with a cracked pane staring out at the forest. A dresser with drawers that stick—dust puffs out when I finally yank one free.
"This is fine," I mutter, setting my suitcase on the bed. "Totally fine."
It's not fine.
But I've survived worse. Foster homes with peeling wallpaper and doors that didn't lock. College dorms the size of closets. My first apartment, where the heat broke every winter and I slept in three sweaters.
This is just another challenge. Another chance to make something out of nothing.
I start unpacking, mentally listing everything I need from the town market. A plush comforter—teal or coral. Colorful rugs for the cold wooden floor. Soft pillows. Scented candles. Hanging plants to bring some life into this tomb.
Kitchen tools. Actual groceries. Meals that aren't protein bars.
And fairy lights. Definitely fairy lights.
Though that depends on how Grayson reacts to my decorating choices.
I sigh and fold a sweater into the sticky drawer. Maxwell exiled me here, but he can't force me to stay somewhere that makes me miserable.
Can he?
I shake off the doubt and head downstairs.
I pull out my sticky notes—bright pink, yellow, green, and blue—and start pinning them to the fridge. Positive affirmations. Grocery lists. A reminder to call Maxwell and tell him exactly what I think of his peace-and-quiet exile.
The fridge looks better already. More cheerful. More me.
I arrange the snacks I brought from home across the counter. Granola bars. Mini jars of strawberry jam and honey. Tea bags in a dozen flavors. Spice jars, because exile shouldn't mean eating bland food.
Then I head to the shared bathroom with my toiletry bag.
My colorful toothbrush goes in the cup next to Grayson's plain black one. My floral makeup kit on the shelf beside his shaving cream. Bright blue facial mask packets. Vanilla body lotion. Hair ties in every color of the rainbow.
I step back. Better already. Less like a forest bunker, more like somewhere a human lives.
I even tape a little schedule to the mirror with glitter-pen stars and stick a note that says: SMILE. YOU CAN brIGHTEN UP SOMEONE'S LIFE.
He'll probably hate it.
That's fine.
Back downstairs, I peek out the kitchen window.
Grayson's outside at a shed I hadn't noticed before, splitting logs.
Sleeves rolled to his elbows, strong forearms flexing with every swing of the axe.
Dark hair falling across his forehead. Jaw set, sharp and focused, every movement precise and controlled.
I watch for a beat longer than I probably should.
Then I shake my head and turn away.
Focus, Kate. You're here to organize files. Not ogle the grumpy mountain man.
I rummage through the cabinets in the kitchen. Flour. Sugar. Oil, since he doesn’t have butter. A half-empty bag of chocolate chips that's probably been here since last year.
Perfect.
Baking always calms my nerves. Always makes me feel in control when everything else is chaos.
And right now, after the world's most awkward cabin arrival, a dead-eyed stare from my new roommate, and zero functioning lightbulbs, I need something familiar.
I preheat the oven, mix the dough, and lose myself in the rhythm of measuring and stirring. Creating something warm and sweet feels like rebellion against the cold silence of this place.
Against Grayson's blank stare and the bare mattress upstairs and the Go Away doormat that clearly wasn't a joke.
The timer goes off 12 minutes later. Two trays of perfectly golden cookies.
The cabin fills with the smell of chocolate.
I smile.
Let him try to ignore this.
I'm at the sink washing the mixing bowls, humming to myself, when the front door opens.
Grayson walks in. Hair slightly damp from the cold air. Dark flannel shirt over a white tee. Work boots caked with mud and sawdust.
Tall—maybe six-two. Broad shoulders. The kind of build that comes from actual physical work, not a gym membership. His eyes are a striking gray-blue, like storm clouds over the ocean.
Sharp cheekbones. Strong jaw with a hint of stubble.
He's objectively handsome in that rugged, brooding way that would make my book club friends completely lose their minds.
But his personality is about as warm as a frozen lake.
He smells the cookies. I can tell because he pauses for just a half-second in the doorway.
Then he walks past me like I'm invisible.
I break the silence because someone has to. "I'll let you know when the cookies are ready. I even made sure none of them sparkle."
Nothing.
He opens a cabinet, grabs a glass, fills it with water from the tap. His eyes land on my sticky notes on the fridge. Without a word, he pulls them down one by one and places them silently on the counter beside me.
"I'm very proud of those, you know," I tell him, refusing to let him win. "Color-coded by vibe. It's a system."
He doesn't even look at me.
So I keep talking. About recipes. About my favorite baking shows. About how I once used salt instead of sugar and my coworker bit into a cookie and made a face like she'd been poisoned.
Grayson says nothing. At all.
It's like talking to a very attractive, frustratingly silent tree.
I refuse to let that stop me.
As I wipe the counter, Grayson reaches for the napkin holder at the same time.
Our hands touch. Just fingertips.
A spark. Something warm and electric runs up my arm.
I freeze, my hand hovering near his.
It's not static. It's something else entirely.
I pull my hand back fast, my heart doing a weird flutter.
Neither of us moves. The air between us feels heavy.
"Static," I say, laughing nervously. "Must be the dry mountain air."
He nods once. Says nothing. And walks away.
But I notice his hand lingers on the counter for just a moment before he leaves.
I stare at my hand like it betrayed me.
This is bad.
I'm not supposed to feel anything for the grumpy hermit who won't acknowledge my existence. I'm here to organize files, prove to Maxwell I'm responsible, and go home with my job intact.
Catching feelings for someone who clearly wants nothing to do with me is not part of the plan.
I shake my head and dry my hands on the towel.
It was just static.
Just static.
—
The rest of the evening passes in awkward silence. Grayson disappears upstairs. I eat cookies in the living room and scroll through my phone, grateful for one bar of signal.
Day one of exile complete.
Still alive. Cabin-mate is a joy.
Maxwell's reply is immediate.
Glad you're settling in. Try to be nice.
I'm ALWAYS nice. He's the one who acts like I'm a plague.
Three dots. Then:
Give it time.
I don't respond. Because what am I supposed to say? That the grumpy mountain man makes my skin tingle when he accidentally touches me? That his silence feels louder than anyone's words?
No. Definitely not saying that.
I finish my cookies, clean up, and head upstairs.
I stand in the doorway of my room, looking at the bare mattress, the dusty dresser, the single cracked window. The complete absence of anything that feels like home.
This won't do. Not for two months.
I pull out my phone and start a shopping list for tomorrow. Thick comforter in a cheerful color. Soft sheets. Pillows that don't deflate the second I lie down. A warm lamp. Rugs. Curtains.
Anything to break up the wall of bare wood.
This is what I do. I take broken things and make them beautiful. I take empty spaces and fill them with life.
Grayson can keep his minimalist aesthetic downstairs. But this room? This room is going to be mine.
I change into soft cotton pajama pants and an oversized college tee. Catch a glimpse of myself in the small mirror on the wall. Hair still a mess. Face tired.
But there's a spark in my eyes that wasn't there this morning.
Maybe Maxwell was right. Not about the exile part. Not the punishment. But the space. The quiet. The chance to step away from the chaos of the city and remember who I am when no one's watching.
Even if that means sharing a cabin with the most emotionally unavailable man I've ever met.
I climb into bed and pull my jacket over myself as a makeshift blanket. The mattress creaks. The pillow is flat and faintly musty.
Tomorrow I'll go into town. Buy what I need. Make this place feel like home.
And maybe—just maybe—figure out how to crack through Grayson's walls.
Or at least get him to say more than three words in a row.
I close my eyes. The cabin settles around me. Footsteps creak on the floor as Grayson moves around his room. The rustle of wind through the trees outside.
It's quiet here. Quieter than anywhere I've ever lived.
And despite everything—the grumpy cabin-mate, the depressing bedroom, the fact that I'm here because I nearly took out the entire power grid at Evervolt Technologies—I feel something unexpected.
Peace.
Just a little.
But it's there.
I pull the jacket tighter around my shoulders and let sleep take me.