Chapter 6
WILLOW
Istand back while Thatcher works the thick metal ring hanging from his belt, keys clanking softly as he sorts through them with practiced ease.
“There’s a spare hanging on a hook just inside the door,” he says over his shoulder.
I nod, clutching my arms to my chest more from nerves than cold.
The door opens with a creak.
The cabin is small.
Very small.
I hesitate on the threshold, then step inside, reminding myself that I am one person.
One human with two bags and a need for safety, not square footage.
Kelly already explained it used to belong to a night watchman back before the mill went fully digital.
Apparently, the equipment here is worth a fortune, tempting enough that people have tried to steal it more than once.
“I’ll get the heat on,” Thatcher says, moving past me toward a narrow closet near the bathroom.
I shiver.
It might actually be colder in here than it is outside.
The air feels stale, untouched.
Winter has been sitting in this room waiting for someone to notice it.
I wrap my arms around myself and try very hard not to let my face betray how bleak this feels in the moment.
The cabin is one room. One.
Plain walls.
No charm. No softness.
Thatcher opens the closet and reveals a control panel that looks more industrial than comforting.
He frowns.
“Shit. I need to check the generator. Be right back.”
The door closes behind him, and silence rushes in.
I take a slow breath and force myself to move.
There’s an unmade daybed shoved against one wall, the mattress thin but serviceable.
A small TV sits on a tiny stand that’s seen better decades.
A coffee table squats awkwardly in front of it, like it’s unsure of its purpose.
On the opposite side is a kitchenette—one floor cabinet, a sink, a hotplate, and a mini fridge that is frankly trying its best.
And then—I grin.
A stacked washer and dryer sit tucked neatly into the corner.
“Well,” I murmur, “that’s a perk.”
That alone feels like a minor miracle.
The lights flick on suddenly, brightness flooding the space.
It doesn’t transform anything.
The cabin is still small.
Still ugly.
Still utilitarian in a way that makes it clear no one was ever meant to live here—just exist between shifts.
But it’s solid.
It’s warm-able—is that a word?
It’s lockable.
It’s mine.
“I can make this work,” I whisper, blinking fast as emotion threatens to overwhelm me.
I’ve had more. Much more.
A real kitchen.
A living room with throw pillows I didn’t pick out, but still.
Clothes hanging neatly in a closet instead of folded into bags.
Vacations. Dinners out.
Comfort that came with conditions I didn’t understand until it was almost too late.
The life I lived before was a trap, a cage.
Freedom is all that matters to me now.
That’s what I want, what I need.
I always worked hard. I never expected life handed to me.
And if the cost of my freedom is being a little uncomfortable?
I can deal with that.
The low hum of electricity kicks on, and I let it steady me.
The sound is grounding.
Proof that things are moving forward, not backward.
Footsteps crunch outside.
I straighten quickly, smoothing my sweater and pasting on what I hope looks like a normal smile.
It must not be convincing.
Thatcher steps back inside and immediately frowns.
He rubs the back of his neck—slow, distracted—and I swear my brain short-circuits.
It’s one of those gestures men in movies do when they’re uncomfortable or worried, except this isn’t a movie and he’s infuriatingly real.
And hot.
Painfully hot.
This is ridiculous.
I am ridiculous.
A man like this wouldn’t look at someone like me twice.
Also—he’s my boss.
Very important detail.
I need to put a lid on these wildly inappropriate thoughts before I embarrass myself beyond recovery.
If I happen to take a mental snapshot of him right now to replay later when I’m alone?
Well.
No one has to know.
“Look,” his voice interrupts my train of thought—thank God—and his tone rough, but careful, “I know this is small. If you’d rather check out rooms in town—”
“No,” I say immediately. Too fast, maybe, but honest. “This is fine. Really. I don’t need a lot of space. It’s just me.”
He studies my face like he’s checking for cracks.
“Okay,” he says finally. “There’s bed linens in that closet. Heat and hot water should be good in an hour or two.”
“Okay.”
“And that—” he gestures toward the washer and dryer “—you can use that.”
“Really?” Relief floods me. “That’s amazing.”
“We installed it a couple years back,” he explains. “For rags, towels, stuff the guys go through. Cleaning crew comes once a month, does the whole mill, including this place.”
“That explains why it’s not dusty,” I say, genuinely grateful.
I hadn’t wanted to voice my fear about rodents or insects—even though it’s probably too cold for most of that—but knowing someone checks this place regularly helps more than I expected.
“Oh,” I add quickly, wanting to be useful, “I can take care of washing the common items too. If there’s a place, I can collect them? Maybe the lunchroom?”
He nods. “Good idea.”
My chest loosens a notch. I did something right.
“Got any bags you want to bring in now?” he asks.
“Oh—no. I’ll do it later,” I say quickly, not wanting him to see how little I actually own.
“Can I park behind the cabin?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks.”
He pauses, then gestures toward the door.
“Alright. Let me show you the lunchroom.”
I grab my too-thin jacket and follow him out, cold air rushing in again—but this time, it doesn’t feel quite as sharp.
This place isn’t pretty.
But it’s safe.
And for now?
That’s enough.