Chapter 4 – Joseph
Demi is beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her body, close enough that if I shifted even slightly our knees would touch.
She looks comfortable. That's what unsettles me most.
She's curled into the corner of the couch with her feet tucked under her, one hand resting on her knee, the other disappearing into the sleeve of my shirt.
Her hair has come loose from the ponytail, blonde strands falling around her face and catching the firelight in a way that makes them look almost gold.
She fits here.
I don't know what to do with that.
I've spent twelve years learning how to live alone, how to make peace with solitude, how to convince myself that this life is enough.
I've gotten good at it. Good enough that most days I don't even feel the absence anymore. I just exist, moving through routines, splitting wood, cooking meals for one, watching the seasons change through windows I don't have to share.
And then she walked through my door, and suddenly the cabin feels different. Smaller. Warmer. Like it's been holding its breath all these years, waiting for someone to fill the spaces I didn't realize were empty.
The fire crackles, and I watch a log shift, sending sparks up into the chimney. Snow is still falling, I can hear it in the way the wind moves, the soft hiss against glass and wood.
We're sealed in here, the two of us, and there's nowhere to go, no reason to leave, nothing to do but sit in this thick, warm silence and pretend my pulse isn't racing every time she shifts her weight.
"This is nice," Demi says softly, breaking the quiet. Her voice is low, almost drowsy, and I glance at her to find her staring into the fire, her expression peaceful in a way that makes my throat tight.
"What is?"
"This. Just… sitting. Not having to talk or do anything. Just being."
I nod, even though she's not looking at me. I understand what she means.
There's a comfort in the silence, in the lack of expectation. Most people fill every gap with noise, with chatter, with anything to avoid sitting still with themselves. But Demi doesn't seem to need that.
"You don't get a lot of quiet in the city, I imagine," I say.
She laughs softly, the sound warm and a little sad. "No. Not like this. There's always noise. Traffic, sirens, people, construction."
"Do you like it? The city?"
She's quiet for a moment, thinking. "I used to. Or I thought I did. But lately it just feels… exhausting. Like I'm constantly performing. Constantly trying to be the right version of myself for whatever situation I'm in."
"And here?"
"Here I don't have to be anything." She turns her head to look at me, and the firelight catches in her eyes, making them seem brighter, warmer. "I can just be me. Messy hair, no makeup, wearing someone else's shirt. And it's okay."
I want to tell her that she's more than okay. That she's beautiful like this, soft and unguarded, wrapped in my clothes and looking at me like I'm not a problem to solve or a project to fix.
But the words stick in my throat unformed, and I just nod instead.
"You should be able to be yourself wherever you are," I say finally.
"Yeah. Well. That's not always how it works."
She looks back at the fire, and I see something sad and familiar flicker across her face, like she's remembering all the times she wasn't allowed to just be.
I hate that.
I hate that she's had to feel that way, and I hate even more that I recognize it. Because I've done the same thing, in my own way. Not by performing, but by retreating. By deciding that if I stayed here, alone, I'd never have to compromise or explain or defend the life I chose.
But sitting here with her, I'm starting to wonder if I chose solitude or if I just convinced myself it was a choice because it felt safer than the alternative.
"Can I ask you something?" Demi's voice pulls me back, quiet but direct.
"Sure."
"Why did you really come out here? What made you leave?"
I don't talk about this. Not with anyone. The few people who visit—family, old friends passing through—know better than to ask.
But Demi isn't asking out of idle curiosity, she's asking because she wants to understand, and somehow that makes it harder to deflect.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, staring into the fire like it might give me the words I need.
"I didn't leave to run away," I say slowly. "At least, I didn't think I was. I came out here because I wanted something different. Something real. I was tired of the noise, the expectations, the constant pressure to be someone I wasn't."
"So you built this."
"Yeah. I built this." I glance around the cabin, taking in the rough-hewn walls, the simple furniture, the life I've carved out with my own hands. "And for a long time, it was enough."
"But?"
I exhale, long and slow. "But I wasn't always alone."
Demi doesn't say anything, but I feel her shift slightly, turning more fully toward me.
"I had someone. For a while. She tried to make it work out here." I pause, the memories surfacing despite my best efforts to keep them buried. "But the isolation got to her. She said she felt like she was disappearing."
"What happened?"
"She left. She told me she couldn't do it anymore, that she needed more than I could give without leaving this place. And I understood. I didn't want to, but I did."
Demi is quiet for a long moment, and I can feel her processing, weighing what I've said. When she speaks, her voice is soft. "Did you love her?"
"I thought I did. But looking back, I think I loved the idea of her more than I loved her.
I loved the idea of not being alone. Of having someone to share this with.
" I scrub a hand over my face, feeling the roughness of my beard, the exhaustion that's been building all evening.
"When she left, I decided it was easier to just accept that this life isn't meant to be shared, that loving someone meant eventually being left. "
"So you closed yourself off."
"Yeah. I did."
"And you've been alone ever since."
"Yeah."
I expect her to argue, to tell me I'm wrong, to offer some optimistic platitude about how the right person wouldn't leave.
But she doesn't. She just nods, her expression thoughtful and a little sad, like she understands exactly what I'm saying because she's felt it too.
"I get it," she says quietly. "The closing off part. I've done it too, just in a different way."
I look at her, and she's staring at her hands, fingers twisting together in her lap.
"After enough times of being left," she continues, "you start to wonder if maybe the problem is you, if maybe you're just not the kind of person people choose to keep. And it's easier to stop trying than to keep putting yourself out there and getting hurt."
She's right. That's exactly what I did, I stopped trying, I told myself it was a choice, that I was protecting myself, but really I was just scared.
"You deserve better than that," I say, and I mean it.
She looks up at me, her eyes wide and a little glassy, like she's fighting back tears. "So do you."
The silence that follows is thick with things neither of us knows how to say. The fire crackles. The wind howls. And Demi shivers slightly, pulling my flannel shirt tighter around her body.
I move closer without thinking.
She doesn't pull away. If anything, she leans slightly toward me, and that small movement feels like permission.
"You're cold," I say, my voice rougher than I intend.
"A little."
"Come here."
I don't know what possesses me to say it, but I do, and before I can take it back, she's shifting closer, tucking herself against my side. Her head comes to rest against my shoulder, and I feel the soft weight of her body pressing into mine.
My arm moves around her almost automatically, settling across her shoulders, and she sighs—this quiet, contented sound that does something dangerous to my self-control.
We sit like that for a long time, neither of us speaking, just breathing together in the firelight.
I can feel every point of contact between us, her side against mine, her head on my shoulder, her hand resting lightly on my knee. It's not overtly sexual, but it's intimate in a way that feels more dangerous than desire.
This feels like trust.
Like she's giving me something fragile and precious, and I'm terrified I'm going to drop it.
"Joseph?"
Her voice is soft, barely above a whisper.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For telling me."
I look down at her, and she tilts her head up to meet my eyes. Her face is so close I can see the faint freckles across her nose, the way her lips are slightly parted, the way her breath catches when our eyes lock.
I want to kiss her.
I want to close the few inches between us and press my mouth to hers. I want to feel her soften against me, to taste the warmth of her, to stop pretending that this is just proximity and circumstance.
But I can't.
Because if I kiss her, everything changes. If I kiss her, I can't pretend this is temporary. I can't convince myself that she's just a guest, just a mistake in the booking system, just someone passing through.
If I kiss her, I have to admit that I want her to stay.
And I don't know if I can survive that.
So I pull back slightly, just enough to break the moment, and I see the flicker of hurt in her eyes before she hides it.
"We should go to bed," I say, my voice strained. "It's late."
She nods, pulling away.
We move through the cabin in silence, banking the fire, turning off lights, preparing for a night that suddenly feels too long and too intimate.
When we reach the bedroom, the reality of the situation hits me all over again.
One bed.
Demi doesn't hesitate. She climbs in on the far side, fully clothed, still wrapped in my flannel shirt, and pulls the blankets up to her chin. I stand there for a moment, frozen, before forcing myself to move.
I lie down on my side of the bed, as far from her as the mattress will allow, staring at the ceiling.
The space between us feels impossibly small and impossibly vast at the same time.
"Goodnight, Joseph," she whispers.
"Goodnight."
I hear her breathing slow, hear the soft sounds of her shifting into sleep, and I lie awake in the dark, hyperaware of every inch of space between us.
She's right there. Warm and soft and trusting, and all I'd have to do is reach out.
But I don't because I'm terrified.
Terrified that if I let myself have this I won't be able to let go when she leaves. Terrified that I've already lost the war I thought I was winning.
The wind howls, the cabin creaks, and I lie awake staring into the darkness.