CHAPTER 18
THE CABIN
NORA
The precinct appears at the top of a gentle rise, tucked into Eden's rolling hills like it's always belonged there.
A weathered wooden sign at the turnoff reads Meridian Studios with an arrow pointing left, and below it, smaller: Private Cabins with an arrow pointing right down a narrow gravel path that disappears into the trees.
I slow the car, taking it in.
The main studio building sits to the left—modern and understated, all glass and warm wood designed to let in light while maintaining the kind of acoustic integrity that probably cost a fortune.
Solar panels catch the afternoon sun. Through the windows I can see movement, people working, the controlled chaos of creativity happening in real time.
To the right, barely visible through the pines, are the cabins. Small structures scattered across the property, each with its own deck and garden, private and secluded.
I sit at the fork in the road, engine idling, trying to decide.
He built this. He actually built it.
Every conversation we had in Málaga comes rushing back—late nights tangled in sheets, his voice rough with sleep as he talked about the studio he wanted to create. The space for artists who needed room to breathe, to experiment, to fail safely.
I'd believed him even then, even when we were young and broke and the future felt impossibly far away.
But believing and seeing are different things.
I stare at the two signs, at the choice laid out in literal arrows.
Left to the studio. Right to the cabins.
If he's even here—and that's a big if—he'd be in the studio. That's where he'd spend his time.
What the hell am I doing? This is such a bad idea.
I take a breath and turn left, following the arrow toward Meridian Studios.
The gravel crunches under my tires as I pull into the small parking area. I kill the engine and just sit there for a moment, staring at the building, overnight bag on the passenger seat, suddenly nervous in a way I wasn't expecting.
Showing up unannounced feels presumptuous, but texting felt worse somehow.
I grab my bag and get out of the car before I can change my mind. The gravel crunches under my feet as I approach the entrance.
I'm reaching for the door handle when it swings open from the inside.
And there he is.
Nate freezes mid-step. His eyes widen slightly when he sees me standing there with my overnight bag, and for a second we just stare at each other.
He's wearing a faded black t-shirt and jeans, sleeves pushed up to reveal those tattoos I still can't stop noticing, hair slightly disheveled like he's been running his hands through it while working.
"Hey," I manage, suddenly feeling ridiculous. "I was just—"
Something shifts in his expression, surprise giving way to something warmer, something that makes my stomach flip.
"You came."
"I should have called. Or texted. I just—the lake house is chaos and your mom said more people were coming later today and I thought—"
I'm rambling. I stop myself, grip tightening on my bag strap.
"Is it still okay if I stay in one of the cabins?”
"Yeah." He steps back, holding the door open wider, and his scent hits me as I pass—soap and something woodsy that shouldn't feel as familiar as it does. "Yeah, of course it's okay. Come in."
I follow him inside, and the interior takes my breath away.
The walls are covered with framed photographs: John Mayer laughing in what looks like this exact studio, Oasis mid-performance, newer artists I recognize from streaming charts. Gold and platinum records catch the light. Awards I didn't know existed.
"Nate, this is—" I turn in a slow circle, taking it all in, hyperaware that he's standing near enough that I could reach out and touch his arm if I wanted to.
I don't. I won't.
"It's incredible."
"Thanks." There's pride in his voice, restrained but real.
He's watching me instead of the studio, like my reaction matters more than anything else, and the intensity of his attention makes my skin prickle.
"Come on, I'll show you to the cabin." He gestures to my bag and takes it from me. "And let you get settled."
"I don't want to interrupt you if you're busy."
"I'm always busy," he says with a small smile that does dangerous things to my pulse. "Doesn't mean I can't take a break."
He grabs a set of keys from the reception desk, his fingers brushing the wood surface, and I watch the movement, remembering those hands, remembering—
I force myself to look away as he leads me back outside.
The morning air is crisp and clean as we follow a stone path that winds through the property, the cabins coming into view—spaced for privacy, each one its own small sanctuary.
The architecture is modern but warm, lots of windows and natural wood, clean lines that don't feel cold.
We walk in silence, but it's not uncomfortable. It's familiar in a way that scares me, this ease of being near him without needing to fill the quiet.
“Whoa,” I murmur, taking it all in. "Nate, this is—"
"Here." He stops at one of the cabins, unlocking the door, and when he turns to hold it open for me, we're suddenly too close.
The faint scar above his eyebrow. The way his eyes track down to my mouth before flicking back up.
"This one's got the best view."
I slip past him into the cabin, putting distance between us because standing that close makes it hard to remember why I shouldn't reach out, shouldn't let my fingers brush against his forearm just to see if touching him still feels the same.
The interior stops me in my tracks.
It's perfect.
Open living space with a small kitchenette, a bedroom visible through a half-open door, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the hills. There's a wood-burning fireplace, bookshelves already stocked, a record player in the corner with a collection of vinyl that looks carefully curated.
“Seriously.” I set my bag down, turning in a slow circle, needing movement to dispel the energy humming under my skin. "This is too much."
"It's a cabin," he says simply, leaning against the doorframe in a way that's entirely unfair—casual and confident and so much steadier than the boy I knew seven years ago. "And it's empty. You'd actually be doing me a favor—these places should get used."
I give him a look that says I know that's bullshit, but he just shrugs, and the corner of his mouth lifts in that way that used to undo me completely.
Still does, apparently.
"There's coffee and basics in the kitchen," he continues, pushing off from the doorframe to step inside, and suddenly the cabin feels smaller. "WiFi password is on the fridge. You need anything else, I'm usually at the studio."
"Usually?"
"Always," he corrects with a small smile.
He's standing a few feet away, showing me where the light switches are, pointing out the thermostat, being helpful and normal while I'm acutely aware of every inch of space between us.
And yet here we are, standing in a cabin he built, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. Like no time has passed at all. Like I could step forward and he'd catch me and it would be easy, so easy to fall back into—
I bite the inside of my cheek. Hard.
"Thank you," I say quietly, forcing myself to stay rooted where I am. "For this. For..."
"You don't have to thank me, Len."
The nickname, soft and familiar, and the sound of it in his voice makes something crack open in my chest.
"I meant what I said. You need space, you've got it. And if there’s anything else you need, you know where to find me.”
He moves toward the door, and the loss of his proximity feels physical—warmth disappearing, gravity shifting.
Part of me wants to ask him to stay, to sit on the couch and talk like we used to, to bridge this gap that feels both infinite and paper-thin.
"Hey, Nate?"
He turns back, hand on the doorframe, and the light catches in his eyes—brown with flecks of gold, the same eyes that used to look at me like I was the only thing that mattered.
"Will you show me the rest? Of the studio?”
Something flickers across his face—pleasure, maybe, or surprise that I'm asking. Relief, possibly, that I'm not ready to let him leave yet.
"Yeah. Of course."
We walk back to the main building, and I'm hyperaware of this ridiculous electricity that's currently pacing between us.
Is it just me? Or does he feel it too?
More importantly: How do I switch it off? Is there a button? A twelve-step program?
I shift slightly to the left, creating more distance. Creating the illusion that I'm a rational adult woman with healthy boundaries and not someone whose entire nervous system just lit up like a Christmas tree because our hands almost touched.
He notices but doesn't comment, just keeps walking, keeps that careful space between us that we both seem to need.
Thank god. At least one of us is capable of basic self-preservation.
Inside, he takes me through it properly this time.
Shows me the recording booths with their custom acoustic panels, explaining the technical details in that low, focused voice that should not be doing things to me but absolutely is.
This is educational. Completely platonic studio tour behavior.
Except when he leans past me to point out a detail, his scent surrounds me and I have to resist the urge to close my eyes and just breathe it in like some kind of unhinged person.
Which I'm not.
I'm fine.
Totally fine.
Just casually having a normal reaction to being in close proximity to someone who smells unreasonably good and happens to be my first love who I definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent do not still have feelings for.
This is fine.
In the mixing room, he explains the equipment with genuine enthusiasm, his whole face lighting up in a way I remember, and I lean against the console just to have something solid to hold onto because watching him like this—passionate, accomplished, so completely himself—makes me want things I have no right to want.
"I can't believe you really did it," I say, because I can't stop saying it. "Well no, actually, I knew you would. I just didn't think it'd be so—"
“State of the art?” he smirks, turning to face me, and we're standing too close again.
"Nick helped out a lot, especially getting investors on board in the beginning. Although now I own it entirley. But yeah. It's more than what I imagined."
He pauses, and his eyes drop to my left hand—still bare—before meeting mine again.
"Your book—the adaptation. When does filming start?"
"Supposed to in a few of weeks. Though Wes keeps pushing for me to come back early for pre-production meetings."
"Wes." He says the name carefully, neutrally, but the muscle in his jaw jumps. "Congratulations by the way. On the engagement.”
“Thanks.” The word tastes like ash.
Everything about this conversation feels wrong—talking about Wes while standing this close to Nate.
I feel like a really shitty human.
Like, genuinely terrible.
I have a fiancé. A man who proposed to me with a ring that cost more than most people's cars. And here I am, standing in my ex's studio, pulse racing because he's close enough that I can smell his goddamn soap, actively suppressing the urge to close the gap between us.
Why is adulting so hard?
Better yet, why are feelings so complex to understand, let alone try to manage?
Shouldn't there be a manual for this? A handbook that explains why you can logically know something is a bad idea while simultaneously wanting it with every cell in your body? Why your brain and your heart can be in completely different time zones and neither one will yield?
I should not be feeling any of this.
I should be thinking about Wes. About my future. About all the very sensible, adult reasons I'm engaged to someone who isn't Nate.
Instead, I'm cataloging the exact shade of brown in Nate's eyes and wondering if he's thinking about the distance between us too.
Great. Excellent. Really stellar human being behavior, Nora.
"Must be exciting," he says, and there's something in his voice I can't quite read. "Seeing your work come to life like that."
"It is," I say automatically. "It's also terrifying. What if they change everything? What if it's nothing like what I wrote?"
"Then it's their vision, not yours." He shifts slightly, and his hand comes to rest on the console, inches from mine.
Not touching. Never touching.
"Doesn't make what you created any less real."
The words settle something in me that's been unsettled for weeks.
We're quiet for a moment, music drifting in from somewhere—piano, melancholy and beautiful—and I'm suddenly aware that we're alone in this room.
The air thickens.
I should leave and lock myself in my cabin because I'm engaged and he's moved on and this dangerous pull between us is just nostalgia, just muscle memory, just—
"I never doubted you," I say quietly, the words escaping before I can stop them. God, what is wrong with me. "Even when we were in Málaga and you were talking about this like it was a sure thing, I believed you'd do it."
His eyes meet mine, and there's something raw in them, something that makes it hard to breathe.
"I remember those conversations."
I remember them too.
How young we were. How certain. How convinced that wanting something badly enough meant we'd get to keep it.
How wrong we were.
I take a breath. Hold it. Let it out slowly.
"I should let you get back to work."
"Yeah."
But he doesn't move, and neither do I.
We stand there, suspended, caught in some kind of gravitational pull neither of us is acknowledging.
Finally—finally—he steps back, and the spell breaks.
"Like I said, the cabin's yours for as long as you need it," he says, voice carefully controlled. "No questions asked."
"Thank you."
He walks me to the door and at the entrance, we pause. He holds the door for me. I step through quickly, putting distance between us like my life depends on it.
"I'm glad you decided to stay, Len," he says quietly, and when I turn back, the look on his face nearly undoes me.
I look up at him, and for a second I forget everything else.
"Me too, I think." I admit, and it's the truest thing I've said all day.
Then I force myself to turn and walk away before I can say anything else.
Before I can do something reckless.
I walk back to the cabin, the sun warm on my face and my mind racing.
I'm in so much fucking trouble.
Then again, who am I kidding?
I've been in trouble since our eyes met and seven years collapsed into nothing.