Chapter 12
chapter
twelve
DAISY
The cabin is not a cabin.
The cabin is a shack on stilts. Very, very high stilts. I realize this after climbing at least ten flights of stairs.
So this is why his teenage self saw it as a treehouse.
“This,” I say as Miles pushes open the creaking wooden door, “is where horror movies happen.”
“It’s structurally sound.”
“A sentence men say right before raccoons fall through ceilings.”
Miles shines the flashlight inside first before stepping over the threshold carefully.
The little structure sits tucked deep between the pines beneath a rocky ridge, barely visible unless you knew exactly where to look. Old Forest Service markings still cling to one side, faded almost white with age.
The whole thing looks like it’s survived at least three murders and a moderate haunting.
Inside, though, it’s… surprisingly okay.
Tiny.
One room. One wood stove. Dust-covered shelves. A narrow countertop. Emergency supplies stacked in old plastic bins.
And warm. Or at least less freezing than outside.
The second the door closes behind us, the wind disappears into muffled silence.
I sigh shakily, feeling like I can breathe for what feels like the first time in an hour.
Miles jumps into action in his usual focused way. He drops his pack beside the stove, starts checking supplies, tests the lantern battery, scans the windows, evaluates the door lock.
Watching him right now is like watching someone flip on their emergency setting. Competent, steady, and calm in a way that makes my shoulders start unclenching.
“Okay,” he says finally. “Good news.”
“That implies bad news exists.”
“There’s food.”
“That’s good news.”
“The bad news is the cot situation.”
I glance over.
One cot. One very narrow cot. Oh. Oh.
Miles runs a hand through his hair. “To be clear, I can sleep on the floor.”
“That floor looks like its rot has rot.”
“I’ve slept on worse.”
“That concerns me.”
He laughs under his breath while unpacking blankets from one of the bins.
And suddenly, the adrenaline starts fading enough for me to realize what we just experienced.
After being threatened by rednecks, stalked through the forest by what is likely Bigfoot, and hiking several miles, we are stranded overnight in a tiny, isolated cabin in the woods. Alone.
If this were the opening scene of a horror movie, I would already be yelling at myself to make better choices.
Miles lights the lantern and warm amber light floods the cabin, softening the sharp planes of his face. He looks tired now. Not physically.
The kind of tired people get after carrying responsibility for too long.
“Hey,” his voice is soft. “You okay?”
The fact that he asks makes something twist painfully in my gut.
“Yeah,” I lie.
Miles’s eyes narrow slightly. “You almost got stranded in the forest with a group of reckless assholes and possible unidentified wildlife activity.”
“When you phrase it like that—”
“I’m serious.”
And there it is again.
That thing he does.
The complete sincerity.
No performance or cool-guy distance. Just honest concern spelled out across his face like he doesn't know how to hide it. Most men I know perform care. But Miles just… cares. He doesn’t even have to try. It’s wildly disarming.
“I’m emotionally okay. I think my body just needs a second to catch up,” I say more honestly this time.
He studies me another second before nodding once.
Then immediately starts talking again, rapid-fire.
“You probably want water first because adrenaline crashes can sneak up on people and there’s electrolyte packets in the red bin if you start feeling dizzy or nauseous or—”
I smile before I can stop myself.
Miles pauses mid-sentence. “What?”
“You ramble harder when you’re nervous.”
His ears actually go pink. “No, I don’t.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I’m being informative.”
“You sound like a Wikipedia page.” I laugh, and something in his shoulders relaxes instantly at the sound. Like he needed proof I was okay.
Oh, God. That realization settles warm and hopeful in my chest.
Miles wheels around toward the supplies like he suddenly remembers I’m here and alone with him in a tiny cabin.
Honestly, same.
I shrug out of his jacket, but the second cold air hits my skin again, I regret it.
“You can keep it,” he says without turning around. Of course he heard me unzip.
“It’s your jacket.”
“You’re cold.”
“So are you.”
“I run warm.”
“You keep saying that like you’re a fucking husky.”
“I’m from the Midwest. We’re resilient.”
“You’re pale enough to combust in direct sunlight. I’m honestly surprised your skin doesn’t sparkle in the sun.”
“That’s called responsible sunscreen usage.”
I grin and pull the jacket back on.
It smells like him. Cedar and detergent and campfire smoke.
Which should not feel intimate. And yet it really, really does.
Miles gets the wood stove going surprisingly fast while I poke through the emergency food bins.
“Beans or soup?” I ask.
“Definitely soup.”
“Oh, thank God.”
A beat passes, then Miles clears his throat. “You were really scared out there.”
I glance up. He’s crouched near the stove, firelight flickering warm across his face.
I exhale. “Um, yeah. Who wouldn’t be?”
“You handled it well.”
“That feels generous considering I almost peed my pants.”
His mouth twitches.
“I’m sorry,” he says, softer this time.
The words catch me off guard.
“For what?”
“For bringing you into this.”
I blink. “What are you talking about?”
“The Ridgefield guys. The woods. Tonight.” He rubs the back of his neck once. “I know you came out here hoping for something fun and weird. Not dangerous.”
Something in his expression twists for half a second. Guilt and responsibility.
The thing is, I can tell this is how he’s wired.
He carries everything. The crew. The risks. The outcomes. He probably feels guilty about a rainy day.
“That wasn’t your fault,” I say gently. “None of it. And I knew what I was getting into, more or less.” I laugh and shrug.
His eyes flick up to mine, his face serious.
And for one suspended second, the room goes very still.
Then Miles launches into another ramble.
“So technically, statistically speaking, wilderness confrontations between rival investigation groups are extremely uncommon and usually involve territorial disputes over evidence collection or permit access, which honestly is why I hate crews like Ridgefield because they prioritize spectacle over field ethics and—”
I burst out laughing.
He stops instantly.
“What?”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Talking yourself in circles because you’re experiencing what I think are… feelings?”
Miles stares at me in horror.
“That is not what’s happening.”
“It for sure is. But Miles, it’s okay. We did kiss, after all.” I shrug, a smile spreading over my face.
“Wait…” He pauses as if he caught me in a lie, which technically he did. “So you admit it?!”
I start laughing, and he wiggles his eyebrows while I laugh harder.
And then, unexpectedly, he starts laughing too.
Quiet at first.
Then real.
Warm and helpless and completely unguarded.
God.
That sound does things to me.
The cabin suddenly feels very small. Very warm. Very full of him.
“You know,” I say once our laughter trails off, “you keep acting shocked that I’m listening to you.”
He stills. Just a little. But enough that I notice.
The fire crackles softly between us.
Miles looks down for a moment before answering. “Most people don’t.”
Something vulnerable opens quietly between us then. I lean back against the wall, studying him in the lantern glow.
“You really think everyone’s eventually gonna laugh at you, don’t you?”
His eyes lift slowly to mine. And there it is.
The thing underneath all the humor. All the rambling.
All the overexplaining. Not insecurity, exactly.
Expectation. Like he already knows how the story usually goes.
Weird guy believes weird things. People humor him until they don’t find the quirks funny anymore.
“For what it’s worth, I love that you care openly.” I shrug slightly. “Most people don’t.”
Something shifts across his face too fast for me to fully catch.
Then he looks away again.
The stove crackles louder as the wind picks up outside.
Rain starts later as we eat our soup.
Heavy and cold, it slams against the roof hard enough to shake the cabin while thunder rolls somewhere deep through the mountains.
The storm traps us inside the tiny space.
One cot. One lantern. One shockingly attractive nerd trying very hard not to look at me too long.
I end up curled beneath two blankets while Miles sits on the floor beside the cot with a map spread across his knee, pretending to study routes. He does a terrible job pretending.
No, Miles keeps doing that deeply inconvenient thing where he catches himself looking and immediately drops his gaze. Like he doesn't trust himself. Like wanting me is somehow impolite.
Which, for reasons I don't fully understand, is making my pulse do crazy things.
The lantern throws warm light over his face.
His curls. Reading glasses. The sleeves of his shirt rolled to his forearms. His calloused hand running distractedly through his hair every few minutes while he studies nothing at all.
And every now and then, he smiles to himself.
Like he's remembering something. Which I know, with terrifying certainty, is me.
“You know you can share the cot,” I say eventually, hoping I sound far more casual than I feel.
His entire body goes still. Like a deer spotting headlights. His eyes remain fixed on the map.
“I’m fine here.”
“Miles.”
“I don’t mind the floor.”
“You’re like six-foot-two.”
“Six-one.”
“That is not the point.”
He clears his throat awkwardly. “I just feel like close quarters are already… complicated.”
I know exactly what he means.
The stolen glances.
The kiss I haven't stopped thinking about.
The way my body seems to recognize him before the rest of me catches up.
The stupidly embarrassing amount of time I've spent wondering what his hands would feel like on my body.
I bite back a smile. “Complicated?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I want you to say it.”
He looks completely scandalized. “You’re enjoying this entirely too much.”
“Maybe.”
Thunder shakes the cabin again.
Miles sighs dramatically like a man being led to execution before finally standing.
“Okay,” he mutters. “But if one of us falls off this thing, that’s between us and God.”
I laugh and shift sideways to make room.
The cot is aggressively narrow. Like it was designed to facilitate awkward tension between two people who want to not want each other.
I think it’s working.
Miles tucks his glasses into his pack, turns the lantern off, and settles gingerly beside me with approximately half an inch of space between our bodies and enough tension to power a small city.
We stare at the ceiling, neither of us speaking right away.
Rain pounds against the roof overhead.
And every single inch of me is aware of every single inch of him.
His hand brushing mine accidentally.
The warmth of his body radiating toward mine.
The cedar-smoke scent of him enveloping me.
This is torture.
Actual torture.
“You’re thinking too loud,” I murmur.
“What does that even mean?” He asks in the dark.
“It means I can physically feel you overprocessing.”
“I’m trying to be respectful.”
“You’re trying not to combust.”
He chokes softly beside me.
I grin into the darkness. “Just…don’t be weird. It’s for survival.”
I turn on my side, my back to his front, and pull his arm around me, so he’s spooning me.
His giant palm is splayed across my hip over the blanket, and contrary to what I expect, I feel him relax.
His warm breath feathers across the back of my head.
It’s weirdly calming, and somehow more intimate than being with any guy I’ve fucked.
I sigh, letting myself sink into the cot.
Then eventually, somehow, sleep pulls me under.
I’m back in the hospital. White walls. White lights.
My father pacing somewhere beyond the doorway while nurses move around me too fast.
I’m six years old again and nobody will explain why my mother isn’t waking up.
Everything smells sterile. I’m cold and shaking.
And somewhere far away, knocking.
Three sharp knocks.
Closer. Closer.
I jerk awake with a broken gasp, bolting upright so hard that I slip to the floor. For one terrifying second I don’t know where I am.
Dark cabin. Thunder crashes. Then warm hands grab my shoulders.
“Daisy.”
Miles.
“You,” I gasp with relief.
“Hey. Hey, it’s okay.” He’s already on the floor next to me, a strong arm around my shoulders pulling me into him.
I bring my knees to my chest, breathing too fast. Way too fast.
Embarrassment crashes in.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, horrified. “Did I wake you up?”
“You were crying.”
Fuck. I haven’t had one of those nightmares in months.
I press both hands over my face. “I’m so sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
“Because this is objectively humiliating,” I mumble through my fingers.
“It was just a nightmare.” His voice stays low and gentle in the darkness.
The storm still rages outside, thunder rolling softly now farther away.
I drop my hands from my face and brace them against my knees. My pulse refuses to calm down.
Miles’s thumb brushes lightly along my arm.
Grounding. Steady.
“Breathe,” he murmurs.
And I do. Because he already knows how to take care of me. The realization cracks something open inside my chest.
“I’m okay,” I whisper eventually, reaching to hold the hand that brushes my arm.
“I know.” But he doesn’t move away. Neither do I.
The moonlight casts soft silver across his face, catching in the dark, short curls falling over his forehead.
He looks wrecked. Beautiful in that deeply human way he always is when he stops trying so hard.
“What was it about?” he asks, almost in a whisper.
I hesitate. Then shrug one shoulder.
“My mom.”
Something in his expression softens.
“Oh.”
Yeah. Oh.
For a second neither of us speaks. Then before I can fully process what’s happening, Miles stands and helps me up.
He lies down on his back and guides me down beside him, my head resting on his chest. Our legs naturally intertwine, and I almost let out an embarrassing whimper at how perfectly I fit against him.
He smooths a hand over my hair, keeping me tight against him, and I breathe him in.
And then, Miles carefully leans in and presses the softest kiss against my forehead.
I look up at him as my entire body melts into him, reaching a hand to cradle his neck.
When he pulls back from my forehead, he looks almost startled by himself.
Like he didn’t mean to do it consciously. Which makes it worse. Or better. I can’t decide. All I know is that, despite being in a rickety cabin on stilts with dangerous men and cryptids somewhere outside, being in Miles’s arms is the safest I’ve felt in a long time.
“Go back to sleep,” he whispers into my hair. I let out a content sigh and instinctively nuzzle into him, drifting into a deep sleep.