Chapter 10
Close but Distant
Grayson
The argument fizzles out eventually.
Not because either of us wins. Because we're both exhausted.
Kate retreats to her room to process. Which apparently involves pacing and muffled muttering I can hear through the floorboards.
I stay downstairs, pretending to read a book I'm not actually reading.
An hour later, she comes back down. Messy ponytail. Leggings and an oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder. She doesn't look at me as she moves into the kitchen.
Cabinets opening. The clink of pots. The fridge. Water running.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Making dinner." Her voice is determinedly cheerful. Forced. "Because apparently we still have to eat even when the entire town thinks we're soulmates."
I almost smile at that. Almost.
"I'm not hungry."
"Yes, you are." She pulls out vegetables and starts chopping with more force than necessary.
"You haven't eaten since this morning except bread. You're having dinner."
"Kate—"
"I made enough for two. You're eating."
It's not a request. It's a command.
I consider arguing. But I see the set of her shoulders. The tilt of her chin. She's not backing down.
"Fine," I mutter. "What are we having?"
"Pasta with roasted vegetables. Garlic bread. Salad." She glances over her shoulder. "And before you say anything—I'm not going to poison you."
"I didn't—"
"You were thinking it."
I wasn't. But I don't correct her.
—
Forty minutes later, we're at the dining table.
Two plates of pasta. Two glasses of water. The garlic bread between us still steaming.
It smells good. Looks even better.
But the silence is heavy.
I prefer quiet. Always have. Silence is safe. Predictable. It doesn't demand anything.
But this feels different. Loaded. Like there are a thousand things neither of us is saying.
Kate keeps picking up her phone. Setting it face-down. Picking it up again.
I focus on my food. The pasta is perfectly cooked. The vegetables seasoned well. The garlic bread crispy on the outside, soft inside.
She's a good cook.
"Stop checking your phone," I say.
She looks up. "I'm not checking it."
"You've looked at it six times in five minutes."
"I'm just—people keep commenting. Mrs. Everly shared the post to three more groups. Someone made a poll about what our couple name should be."
I raise an eyebrow. "Couple name."
"Grate. Or Kay-son. Or—" She waves a hand. "It's ridiculous."
"It'll die down."
"Will it?" She looks at me directly. "Because it feels like it's getting worse. More people sharing. Adding their own stories about seeing us together."
"You walked into my life carrying a suitcase. We've been spotted together since. Apparently that's scandal material."
"Apparently that's enough for them to write a whole romance novel."
I take a bite of bread.
"So," Kate sets down her fork. "Apparently we're a thing."
I don't react right away. Another bite. Another sip of water.
She's watching me. Waiting.
"Maple Glen has a low threshold for excitement," I say finally.
The corner of her mouth twitches.
Then she laughs. Despite everything—the gossip, the absurdity—she laughs. Light and real, nothing like the forced cheerfulness from earlier.
I feel my own lips pull up. Just slightly.
She catches it. "Did you just smile?"
"No."
"You did. I saw it."
"You're seeing things."
"Grayson Hart, you smirked. Admit it."
I take another bite of pasta to avoid answering. But I don't hide it this time.
Kate grins, and some of the tension in the room dissolves. Not completely. But enough that I can breathe.
Enough that dinner stops feeling like an interrogation and starts feeling like something else.
Something almost comfortable.
—
After dinner, we clean up together.
Without discussion. I stand to clear the plates and she's already at the sink running water. I dry while she washes. She stores the leftovers while I wipe down the counter.
Our movements fall into sync naturally. Like we've done this many times instead of once.
She hums while she works. Something light and melodic. I don't recognize it.
I find myself listening. My shoulders drop. My jaw unclenches. The tension I carry—the armor I've worn so long—loosens, just slightly.
And that realization unsettles me.
This is not how I planned to feel.
I came to this cabin to be alone. To escape. To build a life where I didn't have to let anyone in. And somehow, Kate has slipped past every defense I've built without even trying.
It's not just the humming. Or the cooking. Or the way she fills silence with life.
It's the way she doesn't demand anything from me. Doesn't push. Doesn't try to fix me or drag me back to the person I used to be.
She just exists. Beside me. In the same space.
And somehow, that's more dangerous than anything else.
"You okay?" Kate asks, glancing up.
I've been standing still, dish towel in hand, staring at nothing.
"Fine," I say, hanging up the towel. "Just thinking."
"About the gossip?"
"Among other things."
She nods, drying her hands. "For what it's worth, I don't think you're as grumpy as you pretend to be."
"Is that right."
"You fixed my meeting. You waited up—don't deny it, I saw the extra coffee cup. You let me ramble for hours without once telling me to shut up. And you smiled. Twice."
"I didn't smile."
"You absolutely did."
I shake my head, but I can feel the corner of my mouth pulling again.
Kate grins. "There it is. You're softening, mountain man."
"Don't call me that."
"Why not? It fits. Grumpy. Reclusive. Lives in the woods. Chops his own firewood."
"You make me sound like a fairy tale villain."
"More like a fairy tale hermit. The kind the heroine stumbles upon and has to charm out of his grumpiness."
I snort. "You're not a princess."
"And you're not charmed. So I guess we're even."
But the way she says it—warm, teasing—makes me think she knows she's wrong.
I am charmed.
And that's the problem.
—
I need air.
I step out onto the porch, leaving the door open behind me. The night is cool and clear. The stars are brighter here than anywhere I've lived.
Lightning flickers far off in the hills. Distant. Not threatening. Just a reminder that storms pass.
Behind me, Kate hums, moving through the kitchen. The clink of glasses. Water running.
Her presence fills the cabin, spills out through the open door.
It fills the quiet I once protected so fiercely.
And I don't shut the door.
For years, I've built my life around silence. Around solitude. Around the belief that I'm safer alone. That people complicate things. That letting anyone in means risking betrayal, disappointment, pain.
But standing here, listening to Kate hum off-key while she makes tea, I realize something.
The gossip isn't the danger.
The storm isn't the danger.
Even Maxwell and his schemes aren't the danger.
The danger is this.
This warmth spreading through my chest. The quiet I built to survive is starting to feel empty. Maybe what I really need isn’t silence. Maybe I need a partner.
The door creaks. Kate steps out, mug of tea in hand.
"Mind if I join you?" she asks softly.
I should say no. Should retreat. Should put distance between us before this goes further.
Instead, I shift over on the porch step. Making room.
"It's your porch, too," I say.
She sits beside me. Close enough that I can feel the warmth from her. Smell the vanilla of her shampoo.
We sit in silence. Watching the distant lightning. Listening to the crickets and the wind through the trees.
"This is nice," Kate murmurs. "Peaceful."
I nod. Don't trust myself to speak.
Because she's right. It is peaceful.
But it's not the solitary peace I've spent years convincing myself I need.
It's something warmer. Something shared.
Kate sips her tea, completely unaware of the war going on inside me.
And I sit beside her, the quiet no longer feeling like protection.
It feels like a trap.
One I'm not sure I want to escape.