Chapter 3 - Hannah
I watch Griffin disappear up the road with Bear trotting beside him, and I stay crouched there longer than I mean to, my hand still warm from where the dog's fur was pressed against it.
When I finally stand, my knees protest. I've been holding myself too tight for too long, and everything aches in ways that have nothing to do with the drive up here or the cleaning I did yesterday.
I look at the generator sitting on the ground like some kind of mechanical peace offering I didn't ask for and definitely don't understand.
*Everything costs something.*
I meant that when I said it. I learned it young, watching my mother work herself into exhaustion for rent money that was never quite enough, watching my father promise things he'd never deliver before he finally stopped showing up at all.
I learned it again in my twenties, clawing my way through community college on loans I'm still paying off, building a life where every single piece had a price tag I could see coming.
And I learned it three weeks ago when a man walked into the bank with a gun and reminded me that sometimes the cost is your sense of safety, and you don't get a receipt.
So yeah. Everything costs something.
Even this, a generator I didn't ask for, delivered by a man who looked at me like I was an interruption he didn't want but also like he couldn't quite bring himself to leave me freezing in the dark. I still don't know what Griffin wants, but I'm going to find out.
The generator starts on the third try, exactly the way he showed me. I stand there listening to it hum, loud and deeply out of place in the quiet of the mountain.
Light. I'm going to have light. I go inside and flip the switch by the door, and the single bulb overhead flickers once, then glows steady and warm. It's the first thing that's gone right since I got here.
I sit down on the edge of the faded couch, the one I evicted a family of mice yesterday and let myself breathe.
Just breathe. The cabin is still a mess.
The window is still cracked. The whole place still smells faintly of dust, wild things and wood smoke from the stove I'm barely keeping alive.
But there's light now. And heat. And for the first time in three weeks, I don't feel like the world is too big and too loud and too full of things I can't control.
I pull out my phone and scroll to my messages. There's one from my manager: *Hope you're settling in. Take your time. We've got things covered here.*
One from my best friend, Jenna: *You alive? Send proof of life or I'm calling the forest rangers.*
I type back: *Alive. Cabin is rustic. Neighbor is complicated. Will explain later.*
She responds immediately: *NEIGHBOR??? Is he hot???*
I stare at the message for a long moment, trying to figure out how to answer that.
Griffin is... a lot of things. Hot doesn't feel like the right word.
Intimidating, yes. Massive, absolutely. Scarred in ways that make me wonder what the hell happened to him and also make me want to stop wondering because it's none of my business.
But hot? I think about the way he looked at me on his porch yesterday: ice-blue eyes that didn't blink, didn't soften, didn't give me an inch.
I think about the way he stood there this afternoon, walking me through the generator like he was doing me a favor he didn't want to be doing but was going to finish anyway because that's apparently who he is.
I think about the way his dog sat down at my feet and looked at me like I was the answer to a question he'd been asking for years.
*Complicated,* I type again. *Definitely complicated.*
Jenna sends back a string of eyeball emojis and a gif of someone saying *"I'm listening."* I don't reply.
Instead, I set my phone down, pull my jacket tighter around me, and step back outside. The sun is starting to sink lower now, the light turning golden and soft through the trees. The air smells like pine, the generator hums behind me, and I feel the weight of the day start to settle in my bones.
I walked half a mile up a mountain road to ask a stranger for help. I stood on his porch and demanded answers. I didn't run.
For someone who spent the last three weeks jumping at shadows and avoiding crowds and forcing her way through every grocery store trip, that feels like something. It feels like progress.
I spend the next hour going through the supplies I bought in Wildwood.
Canned goods. Bread. Peanut butter. A case of water bottles even though the pump in the kitchen works fine.
Batteries. A flashlight. Mouse traps, because I'm not going through another night wondering if something's skittering around in the walls.
I set the traps in the corners of the cabin, bait them with peanut butter, and try not to feel guilty. I'm not trying to hurt anything. I just want to sleep without worrying something's going to crawl across my face in the dark.
By the time I'm done, the sun is dipping lower, painting everything in shades of amber and gold.
The temperature is dropping fast, and I can feel it creeping in through the cracked window.
I should do something about that tomorrow.
Tonight, I just want to eat something that isn't a granola bar, sit by the fire and not think about guns or banks or the way my hands shook for hours after the cops finally left.
I'm pulling a can of soup from the cabinet when I hear it.
*THUNK.*
Sharp. Loud. The unmistakable sound of metal hitting wood. I freeze, the can halfway to the counter. My heart does that thing it's been doing for three weeks: kicks into high gear before my brain can catch up, flooding my system with adrenaline I don't need.
*It's nothing,* I tell myself. *It's just…*
*THUNK.*
Again. Coming from up the road.
I set the soup down and move to the door, cracking it open just enough to peer out. The clearing between the trees is visible from here, and the fading sunlight cuts through the pines in long golden shafts that make everything look softer than it is.
And there, in the middle of it, is Griffin. Shirtless. Chopping wood. I should look away. I absolutely should close the door and go back to making soup and mind my own business.
I don't.
Because… Fuck!
He's massive. I knew that already. But seeing him like this, without the flannel hiding the sheer size of him, is something else entirely.
His shoulders are impossibly broad, muscles shifting under tanned skin with every swing of the axe.
His back is a map of scars. some thin and pale, some darker, some that look like they were burned into him.
There's a particularly vicious one that runs from his shoulder blade down to his ribs, twisting as he moves.
He brings the axe down, and the log splits clean in two. He doesn't pause. Just sets up another piece, lifts the axe, and brings it down again.
*THUNK.*
He's surely done this a thousand times and could do it a thousand more without thinking.
There's a tattoo on his left bicep, something dark and military-looking that I can't make out from this distance. Sweat gleams on his skin despite the cold, catching the last of the sunlight.
Bear is lying a few feet away, watching with the kind of lazy contentment that suggests this is a regular occurrence.
I should go back inside. I should definitely go back inside.
Instead, I step out onto the porch and start walking toward him.
He doesn't notice me at first, or if he does, he doesn't acknowledge it.
He just keeps swinging the axe, splitting log after log with the kind of precision that comes from years of practice.
I stop at the edge of the clearing, suddenly unsure.
This was stupid. I don't even know why I came over here.
What am I going to say? *Hey, I heard you chopping wood and thought I'd come watch? *
Bear notices me before Griffin does. The dog lifts his head, tail thumping once against the ground, and that's when Griffin finally pauses. He turns, axe still in hand, and his eyes lock on mine.
For a long moment, neither of us says anything.
He's breathing hard. Not winded, just the steady rhythm of someone who's been working, and there's a sheen of sweat across his chest and shoulders.
The scars are even more visible up close.
Burn scars on his right shoulder and side.
What looks like shrapnel marks scattered across his ribs.
The long, jagged line down his back that I saw from the cabin.
He doesn't try to hide them. Doesn't reach for the shirt that's draped over a nearby stump. He just stands there, looking at me like he's waiting for me to explain myself.
"I heard the noise," I say finally, and my voice comes out steadier than I expected.
"Yeah." His response is flat, unreadable.
"I thought—" I stop, trying to find the right words. "I don't know what I thought."
"Thought it was a bear?" he asks, and there's the faintest edge of something that might be humor in his tone.
"Maybe."
"It's not."
"I can see that."
We stare at each other for another beat, and I can’t help but notice how close we are, how much space he takes up even when he's standing still. There's something about him that feels contained, like all that size and strength is held in check by sheer force of will.
"You need something?" he asks.
I should say no. I should turn around and walk back to my cabin and let this man chop his wood in peace. But I don't.
"I wanted to thank you," I say instead, forcing myself to meet his eyes. "For the generator."
"You already did."
"No, I demanded to know what you wanted for it. That's not the same thing."
He sets the axe down, leaning it against the chopping block, and wipes his hands on his jeans. The movement makes the muscles in his forearms flex, and I try very hard not to notice it.
"You don't owe me anything," he says, and there's something almost gentle in the way he says it, like he's trying to make me understand something I keep missing.
"I know."
"Then why are you here?"
It's a fair question. I wish I had a good answer.
"I don't know," I admit, and it feels like more honesty than I've given anyone in weeks.
He watches me for a moment, those ice-blue eyes steady and unreadable, like he's trying to figure out what to do with me.
Then he picks up his shirt and pulls it on, covering the scars, the muscles, the evidence of whatever the hell happened to him to leave him looking like that.
It feels like a loss somehow, watching all of that disappear under worn flannel.
"You settling in okay?" he asks, his voice gruff but not unkind.
"Define okay."
"The generator's working."
"Yeah. It's working."
"Fire staying lit?"
"Barely."
"You're using dry wood?" There's something pointed in the question, like he already knows the answer.
"I'm using the wood that was on the porch."
He nods slowly, like that confirms something he suspected. "That wood's been sitting out too long. It'll burn, but not well. You need seasoned wood if you want actual heat."
"Where am I supposed to get that?"
He jerks his head toward the pile he's been working on. "I'll bring some down."
"You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." He cuts me off, not unkindly, and there's a firmness in his tone that makes it clear this isn't up for debate. "But unless you want to spend the next two weeks freezing your ass off, you'll take it."
I cross my arms, feeling the need to push back, to not accept help without understanding the terms. "This is still a loan, right?"
"Yeah."
"What do I owe you for the wood?"
He picks up the axe again, testing the weight of it in his hand, and for a moment I think he's going to ignore the question.
"Nothing," he says finally, like this should be obvious, “Just don’t die.”
"Griffin…"
"Hannah." He says my name like it's a full sentence, and the sound of it in his rough voice does something strange to my pulse. "You don't owe me anything. Not for the generator, not for the wood, not for showing you how to keep from blowing yourself up. Got it?"
I want to argue. I want to demand a price, a terms sheet, something concrete I can point to and say *this is what it costs.* But he's looking at me with those beautiful eyes, and I can tell he's not going to budge.
"Fine," I say, the word coming out more reluctant than I intend.
"Good." He turns back to the woodpile, clearly dismissing me, and I know I should leave. I've said what I came to say, thanked him for the help I didn't ask for but apparently needed. There's no reason to stay.
But I don't move. Instead, I hear myself ask, "Can I help?"
He pauses mid-reach for another log and turns to look at me like I've just suggested something completely insane. "Help."
"With the wood. Can I help?"
"You know how to split wood?"
"No. But I can learn."
For a long moment, he just stares at me, and I can't tell if he's considering it or trying to figure out the nicest way to tell me to get lost. Then something changes in his expression, not quite a smile, but close enough that I notice.
"You'll hurt yourself," he says, but there's no real heat in it.
"I'm tougher than I look."
"Doubt that's saying much."
I should be offended. I'm not. There's something about the way he says it... Dry, almost teasing, that makes it feel less like an insult and more like... Taunting, trying to see where my limit is.
"Just show me," I say, stepping closer to the chopping block.
He watches me for another beat, then nods once. "Fine. But when you lose a finger, don't come crying to me."