Chapter 2 – Joseph
I crouch in front of the hearth, adjusting logs that don't really need adjusting. The flames are already steady, throwing heat into the small space, but my hands need something to do that isn't noticing her.
Demi.
Even her name sounds soft.
She's moving behind me, unpacking, I think. I hear the quiet rustle of fabric, the soft thud of something being set down, the zipper of her bag sliding open with that metallic whisper that shouldn't register but does.
Each sound arrives like a tap on my shoulder, pulling my attention away from the fire, from the wood, from anything useful.
Her boots sit by the door now, lined up neatly next to mine. Her coat is draped over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, dark blue against the worn wood, and I can see where snowmelt has darkened the shoulders. Her presence has already rearranged the space in ways I can't quite name.
I stand, brushing ash from my hands, and force myself to focus on practical things. The woodpile outside needs restocking before nightfall. The path to the shed could use another shovel pass before the snow sets in harder.
There's always work to do, and work has the benefit of keeping my mind occupied.
Except she starts following me.
"Need help?"
I glance back to find her pulling on a second layer and tugging her hair free from the collar.
It falls in loose waves past her shoulders, catching the firelight for just a second before she moves toward the door.
The light turns the blonde strands almost gold, and I look away before I can follow that thought any further.
"You don't have to—"
"I know." She's already reaching for her coat. "But I've been driving for hours. I could use the movement."
I grab my own coat and push the door open, letting the cold rush in.
The world is blue-white and silent in that way only deep winter can manage.
Snow covers everything in thick, uneven drifts, smoothing out the rough edges of stumps and rocks and filling in the spaces between trees.
The pines stand black and skeletal against the dimming sky, their branches heavy with snow that hasn't fallen yet but threatens to with every gust of wind.
My breath clouds in front of me as I make my way toward the woodpile, boots crunching through snow that's knee-deep in places and crusty on top where it's frozen and thawed and frozen again.
Demi steps out behind me, and I hear her sharp inhale as the cold hits her full force.
"Jesus. It's cold."
"It's February in the mountains." I don't look back, but I can hear the smile in my own voice, dry and a little mean. "What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Something manageable?"
"This is manageable."
She laughs warm and unguarded.
I start hauling logs from the stack, loading them into the canvas carrier I keep by the shed.
The wood is cold enough to sting even through my gloves, and I work quickly stacking pieces in a way that balances weight and keeps everything stable.
Demi moves closer, reaching for a piece of firewood, and I catch her wrist before she can lift it.
"Not that one. It's still green."
She looks at the log, then at me, one eyebrow raised. "How can you tell?"
"Color. The way it smells. Even the weight is different." I release her wrist—aware, suddenly, of how small it felt in my hand—and grab a different piece, holding it out. "This one's seasoned. Feel the difference."
She takes it from me, her gloved fingers brushing mine for just a second, and I feel that touch all the way up my arm. She turns the log over in her hands, studying it like it's a puzzle she's trying to solve, her brow furrowed in concentration.
"Huh. It is lighter."
"Told you."
"Don't sound so smug about it."
"I'm not smug. I'm right."
She laughs again, and I realize I'm starting to like that sound more than I should.
We work in silence for a few minutes, loading wood into the carrier. Her breath comes out in white puffs, and I notice the way her cheeks flush pink from the wind, the way she tucks stray hair behind her ear with snow-dusted gloves.
When she bends to pick up another log, I catch the curve of her hip, the soft fullness of her body under layers of fabric, and I have to look away before the observation turns into something I can't ignore.
When she slips slightly on a patch of ice near the shed, I move without thinking, catching her by the waist to steady her.
Her body is soft under my hands. Warm, even through the layers. I feel the curve of her hip, the gentle give of her stomach, and for a second I forget to let go.
She's solid and real and right there, and my brain short-circuits on the sensation of her weight leaning into me, trusting me to hold her upright.
She looks up at me, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her eyes wide and startled. Snowflakes have caught in her hair, melting slowly, and I can see her breath mixing with mine in the small space between us.
"Thanks," she says quietly.
I release her and step back, shoving my hands into my pockets like that will somehow erase the memory of how she felt. "Watch your footing, ice builds up fast out here."
"Noted."
We finish loading the wood and head back inside, shaking snow off our boots and coats.
I feel my skin prickle as blood rushes back to my fingers and face. The contrast between outside and inside is almost painful, but in a good way, the kind of pain that reminds you you're alive.
Demi peels off her outer layers, hanging her coat and cardigan by the door, and I catch myself watching the way her sweater clings to her waist and hips.
She's all generous curves that make my mouth go dry, and she moves through the space with an ease that suggests she's comfortable in her own skin. There's no hesitation, no attempt to make herself smaller or less visible.
I look away before she catches me staring.
"I'm making dinner," I announce, more to fill the silence than anything else.
"You cook?"
"I live alone in the mountains. What do you think I do? Starve?"
She grins, and the expression lights up her whole face. "Fair point. Can I help?"
"You don't have to—"
"Joseph." She crosses her arms, leaning one hip against the counter in a way that draws my eyes to the curve of her waist. "I'm not going to sit on the couch and watch you do all the work. Let me help."
I sigh. "Fine. You can chop vegetables."
"I'm an excellent chopper."
"We'll see."
I pull chicken breasts from the fridge, seasoning them with salt, pepper, and garlic powder while Demi washes her hands at the sink.
The water runs cold at first, then warm, and I watch her scrub her palms together.
I set her up with a cutting board, a knife, and a pile of carrots, red onions, and bell peppers.
She gets to work immediately, her movements confident and efficient. The knife moves in a steady rhythm and I realize she wasn't exaggerating. She is good at this.
The cast iron skillet heats on the stove, and I add a drizzle of olive oil, waiting for it to shimmer before laying the chicken in. It sizzles immediately, the sound loud and satisfying in the small space, and the smell of garlic and browning meat begins to fill the cabin. Rich and savory.
"That smells amazing," Demi says, glancing over her shoulder.
"It's just chicken."
"Just chicken," she repeats, amused. "You're one of those people, aren't you?"
"What people?"
"The kind who downplays everything they're good at."
I flip the chicken, watching the skin crisp and turn golden, the edges darkening just slightly. "I'm not downplaying. I'm being accurate."
"Uh-huh."
She goes back to chopping, and I hear the rhythmic thud of the knife against the board, steady and sure. After a moment, she starts humming, something low and tuneless, just a soft sound under her breath.
I finish searing the chicken and set it aside to rest, then start on the glaze.
Butter melts in the pan, foaming and bubbling, and I add minced garlic, lemon juice, and a pinch of red pepper flakes.
The scent shifts immediately, brightening with citrus and heat, cutting through the richness of the butter.
Demi moves closer, peering into the pan, and I'm suddenly very aware of how small this kitchen is. Her shoulder brushes mine, and I feel the warmth of her even through fabric. "What's that?"
"Lemon butter glaze."
"Fancy."
"It's three ingredients."
"Still fancy." She nudges my shoulder with hers, and the contact is light, casual, but it lands like a brand. "You're secretly a gourmet, aren't you?"
"I'm practical. This is what I had on hand."
"Right, practical." She's grinning now, and I realize she's teasing me.
I pour the glaze over the chicken, turning the pieces to coat them evenly, then start plating. Rice goes on first, herbed with thyme and a little butter, then the chicken, then the roasted vegetables Demi finished chopping. I drizzle everything with the remaining glaze and step back to assess.
It looks good. Better than good.
Demi leans over the counter, her eyes widening. "Okay. That's definitely not 'just chicken.'"
"It's dinner."
"You're impossible."
"And you're stubborn."
"Thank you."
She says it like a compliment, and I almost smile.
We sit at the small table, plates in front of us, the fire crackling softly in the background. The light flickers across the walls, warm and golden, and for a moment the cabin feels less like a place I'm stuck and more like a place I've chosen.
Demi takes her first bite and makes a low and appreciative sound that does absolutely nothing helpful to my self-control.
"This is so good," she says, her eyes closing briefly. "Seriously. Where did you learn to cook like this?"
"Books. Trial and error. Necessity."
"Well, necessity did you a favor." She takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Do you cook like this every night?"
"More or less."
"That's impressive."
I shrug, uncomfortable with the praise. "It's just food."
"Joseph." She sets her fork down, looking at me with something that might be exasperation. "You're allowed to accept a compliment, you know."
"I'm not good at that."
"Clearly."
We eat in silence for a few minutes, and I find myself watching her again. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear. The way her lips curve slightly when she's thinking. The way she seems completely at ease, even though we're strangers sharing a cabin that neither of us planned to share.
"So," she says eventually, breaking the quiet. "How long have you lived out here?"
"Twelve years."
"Alone the whole time?"
"Mostly."
She waits, giving me space to elaborate, but I don't. After a moment, she nods, like she understands that the conversation ends there.
"It must be peaceful," she says.
"It is."
"Lonely?"
The question catches me off guard. I look at her, and she's watching me with open curiosity, no judgment in her expression. Just genuine interest, like she actually wants to know.
"Sometimes," I admit.
She nods again, slower this time. "Yeah. I get that."
We finish eating, and I start clearing the plates. Demi stands to help, but I wave her off.
"You cooked," she argues.
"You helped."
"Barely."
"Sit. I've got it."
She hesitates, then sinks back into her chair, watching me as I move around the kitchen. I wash the dishes in the small sink, the hot water scalding my hands, and I'm aware of her gaze the entire time.
It's not uncomfortable, exactly, just present. Like she's studying me, trying to figure something out.
When I glance over my shoulder, she's leaning back in her chair, her arms crossed loosely over her stomach, her expression thoughtful.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing. Just… you're different than I expected."
"What did you expect?"
She tilts her head, considering. "I don't know. Someone angrier, maybe? More hostile?"
"I am angry."
"No, you're just grumpy."
I snort. "Is there a difference?"
"Definitely." Her smile softens, and there's something almost sad in it. "Grumpy is temporary, and anger sticks. You're not stuck."
I don't know what to say to that, so I don't say anything.
I dry my hands on a towel and turn to face her fully, and for a moment we just look at each other across the small space.
After a beat, she stands, stretching her arms over her head. Her sweater rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of soft stomach, pale skin that catches the firelight, and I look away before I can stop myself.
"I'm going to change," she says. "Get more comfortable."
"Sure."
She disappears into the bedroom, and I'm left standing in the kitchen, staring at the closed door.