Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Knox
S he was shaking.
I could see it from across the room. There was a slight tremor in her hands as she pulled at the oversized thermal shirt. And she hunched her shoulders inward like she was trying to hold in what little heat she'd managed to regain.
Hypothermia didn't just go away because you got dry. The body needed time, warmth, and food.
I moved to the small kitchen area, filled the kettle, and set it on the propane burner. Coffee would help. Hot food would do more.
"Sit," I said, nodding toward the table.
She hesitated. Then limped over to one of the chairs and lowered herself carefully.
I grabbed the first aid kit from the shelf and set it on the table.
"Your ankle," I said.
"It's fine?—"
"It's swollen." I pulled the other chair around, positioned it in front of hers. "And you're favoring it. Let me check it."
She looked at me for a long moment. Deciding whether to trust me.
Smart.
Finally, she lifted her right foot onto the chair.
I crouched beside it, and rolled up the sweatpants to expose her ankle. The swelling was obvious. Discolored. Not broken—I'd seen enough breaks to know the difference—but badly sprained.
I touched it gently. Felt for anything out of place.
She sucked in a breath.
"Sorry," I said, keeping my voice even. "I need to make sure nothing's fractured."
"It's not."
"Probably not." I rotated the ankle slightly. She tensed but didn't pull away. "But I'm checking anyway."
Her skin was soft under my fingers. I was sure it was warmer now than when she'd stumbled through my door, but still too cold. I could feel her pulse against my palm—fast, probably from nerves.
I focused on the injury. Not on the way my thermal shirt hung off her shoulder, or how small she looked drowning in my clothes.
"Sprained," I confirmed. "You need to stay off it tonight."
"How long until?—"
"At least a day. Maybe two before you can put real weight on it." I pulled the elastic bandage from the kit. "I'm going to wrap it. It'll help with the swelling."
She nodded.
I worked quickly, wrapping from her toes up to mid-calf. Firm enough for support but not so tight it would cut off circulation. My hands knew the routine. Field medicine. How many times had I done this downrange? For teammates. For locals. For people whose names I'd never learned.
But this felt different.
Maybe because it was quiet here. There was no gunfire, no chaos. Just the sound of rain and the crackle of the fire and her soft breathing above me.
Maybe because she was watching me. I could feel her gaze on the top of my head. On my hands.
I finished the wrap. Then stood and put distance between us before I could think too hard about why I wanted to keep my hands on her skin.
"That should hold," I said, moving back to the kitchen.
"Thank you."
I nodded before pulling out bread, peanut butter, and crackers. Nothing fancy. Just calories. The kettle started to whistle. I poured hot water over instant coffee grounds.
"How do you take it?" I asked.
"Coffee?"
"Yeah."
"Cream and sugar. If you have it."
I did. Jake kept the cabin stocked even before I rolled into town, looking for a place to hideout after my last mission. I fixed her cup the way she wanted it. Black for mine.
Set both on the table along with the food.
She looked at the plate. Then at me.
"You don't have to?—"
"You haven't eaten." I sat across from her. "Your body needs fuel. Especially after what you just went through."
She picked up the sandwich I'd made. Took a small bite and chewed slowly.
I drank my coffee and tried not to watch the way her throat moved when she swallowed.
"What's your name?" she asked quietly.
I hesitated. Names made things personal. Personal led to questions. And questions led to conversations I didn't want to have.
But she'd trusted me enough to come inside. To sit at my table wearing my clothes.
"Knox."
"Knox." She tested it. Then offered a small smile that did something strange to my chest. "I'm Anniston."
Anniston.
It sounded southern and refined. A name that came with family trees and expectations.
The kind of name that didn't belong in a place like this.
"Where were you heading?" I asked.
"Ridgewood Falls." She wrapped both hands around her coffee mug like she was still trying to get warm. "I almost made it, but then my car just... died."
“And you knocked on my door.” And turned my carefully crafted solitude on its head.
“And you let me in." Her voice went softer. "I don't know what would've happened if you hadn't..."
I nodded and took another drink of coffee to have something to do with my hands.
The cabin felt smaller with her in it. When she shifted in her chair, I noticed. The woman who looked at me with those eyes that were trying to figure me out.
"Why are you out here?" she asked. "This far from everything?"
"I like the quiet."
"It's more than quiet. It's isolated."
"Same thing."
"Not really." She took another bite of her sandwich and watched me over the rim of her coffee mug. "Quiet is peaceful. Isolated is..."
"What?"
"Intentional."
Smart. Too smart.
I stood, grabbed my empty mug, and moved to the counter. I put my back to her so she couldn't read whatever was on my face.
"The storm should pass by morning," I said. "The road'll be clear enough to get you back to your car."
"And then what?"
"I’ll take a look at the car. If I can’t get it running, I’ll give you a ride into town so you can call for a tow."
Silence behind me.
When I finally turned back, she was looking out the window at the storm.
"What brings you to the area?" I asked before I could stop myself.
Her gaze snapped to mine. For a second, I thought she'd deflect. Lie.
"I needed a break from my life,” she said looking down at her hands.
Two words. Honest enough that I felt them.
"You?" she asked.
"Same."
We didn't say anything else. Didn't need to.
Outside, the storm raged. Inside, there was just the fire. The coffee. The understanding that sometimes running was the only option left.
She finished eating. I cleared the table. The silence between us wasn't uncomfortable. Just... charged. Like the air before lightning struck.
I was aware of her in a way I hadn't been aware of anyone in months. The way she moved. The small sounds she made. The curve of her neck where my shirt collar gaped too wide.
I needed to stop.
"You should get some sleep," I said. "It's late."
She glanced at the bed. Then at me.
"I’ll take the floor."
"Knox—"
"I've slept in worse places." I moved to the small closet, pulled out an extra blanket and pillow. "I'll be fine."
"You don't have to do that. I can take the floor."
"No."
"But—"
"You're injured and exhausted. You're not sleeping on the floor." I dropped the blanket and pillow near the woodstove. "This isn't up for debate."
She opened her mouth, then closed it. I could see her trying to decide if she wanted to argue.
"Thank you,” she finally said and I nodded.
She stood slowly, testing her weight on the wrapped ankle. Better with the support, but still tender. She limped to the bed, sat on the edge.
I turned away and focused on banking the fire. Then on arranging my makeshift sleeping spot. On anything except the sound of her settling into the bed.
I stayed by the fire until I was sure she’d fallen asleep.
Then I settled against the wall, my jacket rolled under my head, and stared at the ceiling.
The cabin had never felt this small before.