Chapter 6 – Jason
She's humming in my kitchen.
The sound is soft, almost unconscious, some melody I don't recognize drifting through the cabin as she moves between the counter and the stove.
Afternoon light filters through the snow-crusted windows, pale gold and diffused, painting everything in soft edges.
Inside, there's warmth. Steam rising from the pot on the stove.
The smell of venison and root vegetables simmering together.
Bread cooling on the cutting board, the crust crackling as it settles.
And her. Moving through my space like she belongs here. Like she's always belonged here.
I watch from the doorway, arms crossed, just taking her in. She's still wearing my clothes—thermal shirt rolled at the sleeves, sweatpants cinched tight at her waist. Her hair's pulled back in a messy knot, a few strands escaping to frame her face.
There's an ease in her movements now that wasn't there yesterday, a looseness in her shoulders that tells me she's stopped bracing for the other shoe to drop.
She reaches for the wooden spoon, stirring the stew, and I push off the doorframe and cross to her. My hand settles on her lower back and she leans into the touch without hesitation.
"Smells good," I murmur.
"Your recipe." She glances up at me, eyes bright. "I'm just following instructions."
"Doing a damn good job of it."
She ducks her head, pleased, and goes back to stirring. I stay close, my chest against her shoulder, breathing in the smell of her hair mixed with woodsmoke and cooking spices. It's domestic in a way I never thought I'd want. Never thought I'd get.
"Needs more time," she says, replacing the lid. "Maybe another twenty minutes?"
"Sounds about right." I brush a strand of hair behind her ear, let my fingers linger against her jaw. "You cold?"
"No." She turns in the circle of my arm, tilting her face up. "Why?"
"Just checking." I trace my thumb across her cheek. "You were shaking so hard when you got here. Want to make sure you're warm enough."
"I'm perfect." Her hand comes up to rest against my chest, right over my heart. "More than perfect, actually."
The words settle something in me that's been restless since I realized that having her here, in my cabin, in my bed, in my life—it's not temporary. Not for me.
I'm keeping her.
The thought should probably scare me. I've spent years alone by choice, convinced I was better off that way. Safer that way.
But looking at her now, her face tilted up to mine, trust and want and something deeper shining in her eyes… All I feel is certainty.
I lean down and kiss her. Slow and thorough, tasting her, feeling her melt against me. Her hands slide up to curl around my neck, and for a long moment there's nothing but this—her softness against my hardness, the give of her mouth, the quiet sound she makes when I deepen the kiss.
When I finally pull back, we're both breathing harder. She looks dazed, lips swollen, and I have to resist the urge to carry her back to bed and pick up where we left off an hour ago.
"Stew's gonna burn if you keep doing that," she murmurs, but there's heat in her eyes that says she wouldn't mind if it did.
"Then I'll make more." I brush my lips against her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. "Worth it."
She laughs and pushes gently at my chest. "Go. Set the table or something. Make yourself useful."
I let her go, but not before landing one more quick kiss on her mouth. She swats at me halfheartedly, color rising in her cheeks, and turns back to the stove.
I pull down bowls, slice the bread, pour water. Simple tasks that feel weighted with meaning because she's here. Because we're doing them together.
We're setting everything out when her phone buzzes on the counter.
The sound cuts through the quiet like a knife. We both freeze, staring at the device where it sits next to the cutting board. It's been dead since she arrived, battery drained, and I haven't offered to charge it. Neither of us has mentioned it.
Now it's lit up, vibrating insistently. One bar of signal flickering in the corner of the screen.
Nicola's face goes pale. "I didn't—I thought it was dead."
"Storm probably knocked out the cell tower." I keep my voice even, controlled, even though something cold and territorial is coiling in my gut. "Must've just come back online."
She stares at the phone like it's a live grenade. "I should—I need to—"
"You don't need to do anything you don't want to do." I move to her side, steady and certain. "It's your phone. Your choice."
She picks it up with shaking hands. The screen lights up with notifications—dozens of missed calls, texts, voicemails.
I watch her scroll through them, see the way her jaw tightens, the way her breathing goes shallow. I don't need to read them to know what they say. Demands. Accusations. The same controlling bullshit wrapped in the language of concern.
"He's been calling since yesterday morning," she whispers. "Over and over."
"You gonna call him back?"
She looks up at me, eyes wide and frightened. "I don't know. I should, right? I mean, he's probably worried, and I just disappeared, and—"
"Nicola." I cup her face in both hands, forcing her to focus on me. "Do you want to call him back?"
"No." The word comes out small but certain. "No, I don't."
"Then don't."
"But he'll—he won't stop. He'll keep looking. He'll—"
"Let him look." I hold her gaze, letting her see the absolute certainty in mine. "You're not going back to him. You're staying here. With me."
She searches my face, looking for doubt or hesitation. She won't find any.
"What if I'm not strong enough?" Her voice cracks. "What if he finds me and I—what if I'm not brave enough to keep saying no?"
"You are." I trace my thumbs across her cheekbones, gentle despite the possessive fury building in my chest. "You ran in a blizzard rather than marry him. You survived a night in the mountains. You're the bravest person I know."
"Jason—"
"And even if you weren't," I continue, "I'm here. You think I'm letting him near you? You think I'd let anyone hurt you?"
She shakes her head slowly, eyes filling.
"You're mine now," I say, low and absolute. "Not his. Not anyone else's. Mine. And I keep what's mine safe."
A tear spills over, tracking down her cheek. I catch it with my thumb.
"I want to stay," she whispers. "I want—God, I want this so much it scares me."
"Then stay." I lean my forehead against hers, breathing her in. "Stay and let me keep you. Let me give you the life you deserve, the one where you don't have to be afraid, where you don't have to make yourself smaller, where you're wanted exactly as you are."
Her hands come up to grip my wrists, holding on like I'm the only solid thing in her world. "You really want that? You want me?"
"More than I've wanted anything in my life."
She makes a sound—half sob, half laugh—and then she's kissing me, desperate and grateful and full of something that feels dangerously close to love. I kiss her back with everything I've got, pouring three years of loneliness and a lifetime of wanting into it.
When we break apart, she's smiling through tears. "Okay," she says. "Okay. I'll stay."
The relief that crashes through me is almost physical. I pull her against my chest, wrapping her up completely, and feel her melt into me.
"You won't regret it," I murmur into her hair.
"I know." She presses her face against my shoulder. "I already don't."
We stand like that for a long moment, holding each other while the stew simmers and the afternoon light fades to dusk. Her phone buzzes again on the counter, and without looking, she reaches out and silences it.
"I should block his number," she says.
"Good idea."
"And maybe... maybe get a new one entirely. Start fresh."
"If you want to." I press a kiss to the top of her head. "Whatever you need. We'll handle it together."
She tilts her face up, and the trust in her eyes nearly undoes me. "Together."
"Together," I confirm.
She reaches up on her toes and kisses me again—softer this time, sweeter, but no less full of promise. When she pulls back, there's a lightness to her expression that wasn't there before. Like she's finally set down a weight she's been carrying too long.
"Stew's probably ready," she says.
"Probably." I don't let her go.
She laughs. "You have to let me go if we're going to eat."
"Don't have to do anything." But I loosen my hold, letting her step back. "Could just keep you right here instead."
"Tempting." She moves to the stove, lifting the lid to check the stew. Steam billows up, carrying the rich smell of meat and herbs. "But I'm starving, and this smells too good to waste."
I grab the bowls and bring them over. She ladles out generous portions, and we carry everything to the table.
It's a simple meal—rustic and filling, the kind of food meant to warm you from the inside out—but sitting across from her, watching firelight dance across her face, it feels like the best thing I've ever eaten.
"This is really good," she says around a mouthful of bread.
"Told you. You're a natural."
She rolls her eyes but she's smiling. "I followed your recipe exactly. That's not being a natural, that's being able to read."
"Take the compliment, Nicola."
"Fine." She dips her bread in the stew, takes another bite. "I'm amazing. A culinary genius. Gordon Ramsay has nothing on me."
I snort. "There's the confidence I was looking for."
She grins at me across the table, and something warm and permanent settles in my chest. This. This is what I've been missing. Not just another body in the house, but her.
Her laughter and her warmth and the way she's already making this place feel less like a refuge and more like a home.
After dinner, I clear the bowls while she wipes down the counter. We move around each other easily, naturally, like we've been doing this for years instead of hours. She bumps her hip against mine when I'm rinsing dishes, and I catch her around the waist, pulling her against my side.
"Troublemaker," I murmur.
"You started it."
"Did I?"
"You're always touching me." She tips her head back to look at me. "Not that I'm complaining."
"Good." I press a kiss to her temple. "'Cause I'm not stopping."
She turns in my arms, sliding her hands up my chest. "Jason?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you." Her voice is soft, serious. "For giving me somewhere safe to land. For not asking too many questions. For just... for keeping me."
"You don't need to thank me," I tell her. "You're not a burden. You're not something I'm tolerating or putting up with. You're—"
I stop, searching for the right words. She waits, patient, trusting.
"You're mine," I finally say. "And I'm yours. That's how this works. We keep each other."
Her eyes shine with emotion. "We keep each other," she repeats softly.
"Yeah." I cup her face, memorizing the sight of her in my kitchen, in my clothes, in my life. "Exactly that."
She rises on her toes and kisses me, slow and deep, and I taste forever in it. Taste the promise of more mornings waking up together, more meals cooked side by side, more nights tangled in my bed.
A future I didn't think I wanted and now can't imagine living without.