Chapter 3 Mila
THREE
MILA
The first thing I learn about Bluebird Cabin is that it’s quiet in a way that makes you hear yourself.
Not your thoughts—those are already loud and dramatic, thank you—but the little sounds. The click of the deadbolt. The sigh of the heater. The soft pop of the fireplace trying to catch like it’s flirting with the idea of warmth but not ready to commit.
I set my bags down by the door and just… stand there.
The cabin is exactly what I came for. Cozy.
Warm wood everywhere. A small kitchen with open shelves and mismatched mugs.
A plaid throw blanket draped over the couch like it’s posing for a lifestyle photo.
A stack of books on the coffee table that includes a dog-eared romance novel with a shirtless man and a suspicious amount of chest hair.
Timber Creek does not do subtle.
I peel off my gloves, rub my hands together, and exhale.
“Okay,” I whisper to the empty cabin. “We made it. Nobody died. Darlene and I are officially survivors.”
As if summoned by her name, my SUV’s headlights blink once outside—probably the hazards still on.
I dart to the window and see Beau’s truck turning around in the clearing, tires crunching through snow. He backs out like he’s done this a thousand times, then pauses at the end of the drive like he’s checking the road conditions one last time.
Or—
My heart does a stupid little hiccup.
Or like he’s checking on me.
I press my forehead to the glass and immediately regret it because it’s cold enough to freeze my eyelashes together.
Beau gets out of the truck again, walks a few steps toward the cabin, and glances up at the windows.
Oh my God. He’s looking right at me.
I yank myself back like I’ve been caught doing something illegal, which is ridiculous because the crime is apparently… having eyes.
I stand there, frozen, listening.
A soft knock hits the door.
Three taps. Firm. Controlled.
My pulse leaps into my throat.
No. Absolutely not. He is not coming back. He is not. I am not ready. My hair is doing that weird static thing. My cheeks are windburned. I smell like stress and beef jerky.
I open the door anyway, because my body hates me.
Beau stands on the porch with snow dusting his shoulders, beanie pulled low, jaw tight like the cold is personally offending him.
In his hands: a brown paper bag.
“Forgot something?” I blurt.
His gaze flicks over my face, quick and assessing. Like he’s making sure I’m still intact.
“No,” he says. “You did.”
I blink. “I did?”
He lifts the bag slightly. “You left this in my truck.”
I step closer—and my brain stalls because the bag smells like coffee and something warm.
“My… what is that?”
“Food,” he says like it’s obvious.
“You—” I stare at him. “You brought me food.”
“It’s soup,” he corrects. “From the station.”
“You… keep soup at the station?”
“We keep a lot of things at the station.” His mouth twitches, almost a smile. “People get stranded. People get stupid. People get hungry.”
“I feel personally attacked,” I say, because my personality is apparently ninety percent sarcasm when I’m nervous.
He doesn’t bite. He just looks at me, eyes steady and unblinking, like he’s trying to figure out what I’m made of.
Then he holds the bag out. “Take it.”
I take it, because I’m not insane.
The warmth seeps into my fingers through the paper, and my stomach immediately betrays me by growling again, loud enough to echo.
Beau’s eyebrow lifts.
I close my eyes. “Please pretend you didn’t hear that.”
“I can’t pretend I didn’t hear a bear trapped inside your body.”
“That is so rude.”
“It’s accurate.”
I laugh before I can stop myself, and Beau’s gaze drops—just for a second—to my mouth.
My breath catches.
He looks back up fast, like he’s annoyed with himself.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “I mean. I’m not fine. I’m hungry. But I’m—thank you.”
He nods once, like gratitude isn’t his favorite thing to receive.
“You got heat?” he asks.
“Yes. The heater’s working. The fireplace is… debating.”
His eyes go past me into the cabin. “You know how to use it?”
I open my mouth.
Then close it.
Then say, honestly, “I watched a YouTube video.”
He stares at me for a beat, then exhales through his nose like he’s trying not to laugh.
“It was very informative,” I add defensively.
“Uh-huh.”
“I am a capable woman.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t.”
His voice is low and calm, and the way he says it—like he actually believes it—makes my chest squeeze.
I shift my weight. “So… you’re going back up to Haven 7?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you… live there?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He pauses, eyes narrowing slightly. Not annoyed. More like… cautious.
“Most nights,” he says.
Something about that makes my stomach flutter.
Most nights.
Like there are nights he doesn’t.
Like he has a life outside the station.
I should not want to know details. I absolutely want to know details.
“Do you want to…” I start, then stop because why would I ask him anything ever? “Never mind.”
Beau’s gaze sharpens. “What.”
It’s not a question. It’s a command dressed as one.
And it does something to me. Something stupid and warm.
“I was just going to ask if you wanted to come in,” I say quickly. “For… a minute. So you’re not freezing. And also I have… um…”
I glance at the kitchen behind me like it might offer answers.
“I have hot cocoa,” I finish, because that feels safe and non-flirty and not at all like I’m inviting him into my cabin like the heroine in a romance novel with terrible decision-making.
Beau hesitates.
The snow falls thicker around us, soft and relentless, and for a second it feels like the whole world is holding its breath.
Then he says, “Two minutes.”
“Two minutes,” I repeat like that’s a normal thing to say.
He steps inside.
My cabin immediately becomes eighty percent smaller.
It’s not that he’s huge—though he is, annoyingly—but it’s the presence. The way he moves like he’s aware of every corner, every shadow, every possible threat.
And I hate how safe it makes me feel.
I close the door behind him and realize I’m suddenly very aware that I am alone in a cabin in the woods with a very attractive mountain rescue man.
I clear my throat. “Okay. Cocoa.”
He sets his boots neatly by the door without being asked, which is… weirdly hot?
I hustle to the kitchen, pretending I’m not short-circuiting.
I grab two mugs from the shelf. One says BITE ME and the other says HAPPY PLACE.
I stare at them like they’re a moral test.
I hand him HAPPY PLACE because I am mature.
He takes it, gaze flicking to the mug. “This yours?”
“Yes,” I lie, because I cannot admit I bought it at Target during a breakdown.
I dump cocoa mix into the mugs with slightly shaking hands, pour hot water, and stir like my life depends on it.
Behind me, Beau speaks. “You live in Charleston?”
I turn, surprised. “Yeah.”
“Why Timber Creek?”
There’s no judgment in his tone. Just curiosity.
I wrap my fingers around my mug. “Because I needed… quiet.”
His eyes hold mine, and I swear he can see straight through the parts of me I’ve been taping together.
“Quiet from what?” he asks.
I swallow.
I could say a million things. Work. Stress. My ex. The feeling that I’m always performing a version of myself that’s easier for other people to digest.
Instead, I shrug lightly. “Life.”
Beau’s jaw tightens like he understands that answer more than he wants to.
He takes a sip of cocoa, and his expression flickers—barely—but it’s like he’s surprised it’s good.
“See?” I say, relieved to have something easy. “I can provide nourishment.”
“Congratulations,” he deadpans.
I grin. “Thank you.”
He glances around the cabin again, eyes pausing on the bookshelf, the throw blanket, the romance novel on the coffee table.
His mouth twitches. “You read those?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” he repeats.
I lift my chin. “Don’t act like you don’t read.”
“I don’t.”
“Lies.”
His gaze drifts back to mine, and the air between us shifts. It’s subtle, but I feel it—like the joking is a bridge and we’re both standing at the edge of something deeper.
“What do you do, Mila?” he asks.
I blink. “Like… for work?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m a copywriter.” I make a face. “Which sounds cooler than it is. Mostly I convince people to buy things they don’t need.”
His eyes narrow faintly. “You like it?”
“No,” I say instantly. Then I wince. “I mean. It pays my bills. But I don’t love it.”
“What do you love?” he asks, quiet.
The question makes my throat tighten.
I stare into my mug like the cocoa might give me an answer.
“I used to write,” I admit. “Like… real writing. Stories.”
Beau’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Why’d you stop?”
Because I started dating someone who told me it wasn’t practical. Because I got busy trying to be the kind of woman men want to keep. Because somewhere along the way, I decided my dreams were optional.
I shrug again, but it’s not as light this time. “Life happened.”
Beau nods slowly, like he understands that too.
Silence settles between us—not awkward, exactly. Just… heavy with things neither of us is saying.
I realize Beau is still holding his mug, but he hasn’t moved like he’s in a hurry to leave.
My pulse stutters. “So, uh… do you like working with Haven 7?”
His eyes flick to mine. “It’s what I do.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
His jaw flexes once, and for a second he looks like he might shut down.
Then he says, “Yeah. I like it.”
The simplicity of it hits me harder than it should.
“Why?” I ask softly.
Beau’s gaze drops to the floor, then back up. “Because it matters.”
My chest tightens again. “That’s… admirable.”
He makes a sound like he doesn’t know what to do with compliments.
Then his radio crackles.
Beau’s entire body changes—shoulders tightening, focus snapping sharp. He pulls the radio from his jacket and listens.
A voice cuts through. “Beau, you copy? We got a call. Snowmobiler off Trail 3. Possible injury.”
Beau doesn’t hesitate. “Copy. I’m ten out.”
He clips the radio back, already moving toward the door.
My stomach drops with a weird mix of disappointment and worry.
“Beau,” I blurt.
He pauses, hand on the doorknob, and looks at me.
“Be careful,” I say, and immediately hate how soft it sounds. Like I’m allowed to care.
For a second, something shifts in his eyes—something warm and dangerous.
“I’m always careful,” he says.
Then, quieter, like it’s just for me: “Lock the door.”
I nod.
He opens the door, cold air rushing in, and steps out into the snow like he belongs to it.
Before he leaves the porch, he turns back.
“Mila.”
“Yes?”
He holds my gaze for a beat that feels too long to be nothing.
Then he says, “Soup’s in the bag. Eat.”
And he’s gone—boots crunching, truck engine rumbling, headlights disappearing into the trees.
I stand in the middle of my cabin holding my cocoa like a malfunctioning human.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “So. That happened.”
My phone buzzes on the counter.
A text from an unknown number.
June: Hi sweetheart! It’s June from the Mercantile
I heard you made it to Bluebird safe!
Also—don’t panic—but you’re coming to dinner Sunday. It’s basically a Timber Creek requirement.
And before you ask, yes, Beau will be there. You’re welcome.
I stare at the screen.
Then I whisper, very quietly, “Oh no.”
Because I’m not sure what’s worse:
That I’m being ambushed by a matchmaking grandmother…
Or that the idea of seeing Beau again makes my heart feel like it just found its favorite disaster.