Chapter 5 - Hannah
*A hermit who clearly wants nothing to do with me.*
It came out sharper than I meant it to, more bitter. Like an accusation. Like I'm hurt by it, which is insane because I've known this man for all of thirty-six hours and I came up here specifically to be alone, so what do I care if he wants nothing to do with me?
Except he's sitting at my table drinking coffee he didn't have to accept. He just spent an hour teaching me how to split wood and build a fire. He gave me a generator and a wheelbarrow full of seasoned firewood and didn't ask for anything in return.
So maybe "clearly wants nothing to do with me" isn't entirely accurate.
Griffin looks at me for a long moment, those ice-blue eyes steady. Then he says, "If I wanted nothing to do with you, I wouldn't be here."
"Then why are you here?"
It's a genuine question. I need to know.
Because everything I learned growing up, everything I've experienced in my twenty-eight years, has taught me that people don't help without wanting something.
My father wanted a place to crash when he was between jobs and girlfriends.
My mother wanted someone to justify all the sacrifice, all the long hours, all the exhaustion.
My ex wanted someone who wouldn't ask too many questions about where he was on Thursday nights.
Everyone wants something.
Griffin takes a sip of his coffee, and I watch his throat work as he swallows. He sets the mug down like he's buying himself time to think.
"Because I remember what it's like," he says finally. "To come to a place like this looking for quiet. For space. For the chance to just... breathe." He meets my eyes. "And I remember how much harder it is when you don't know what you're doing."
"So, this is pity."
"No." The word is firm, almost sharp. "This is knowing what you need and having the means to provide it. That's all."
"That simple?"
"Yeah, Hannah. That simple."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him. But the part of my brain that's been overthinking threats and calculating costs for all my life won't let me. It keeps searching for the angle, the catch, the moment when the price gets revealed.
"You're doing it again," Griffin says.
"Doing what?"
"Looking for the trap."
I freeze, mug halfway to my mouth. "I don't—"
"You do. Every time I offer you something, you look at me like I'm about to pull the rug out. Like there's a hidden cost you're trying to calculate."
He's right. I hate that he's right.
"Everything costs something," I say, repeating what I told him earlier.
"Not this."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
We stare at each other across the small table, and I can feel the weight of the conversation shifting into territory I'm not sure I want to explore. There's too much honesty here. Too much of both of us showing our edges.
I look down at my coffee, at the way the lamplight reflects off the dark surface.
"My dad used to do this," I start. "Show up out of nowhere with gifts.
Toys when I was little, money when I got older.
Always said it was because he loved me, because he wanted to help.
" I take a breath. "And then a week later he'd be asking to stay on our couch, or borrowing money he'd never pay back, or expecting me to lie to my mom about where he'd been. "
I can feel Griffin watching me, but he doesn't interrupt.
"So yeah," I continue. "I look for the trap. Because there's always a trap."
For a long moment, he doesn't say anything. Just sits there, hands wrapped around his mug, processing. Then he leans back in his chair, and the wood creaks under his weight.
"I'm not your dad," he says.
"I know that."
"Do you?"
I meet his eyes. "I'm trying to."
"That's fair."
Bear sighs heavily from his spot under the table, and the sound breaks the tension. Griffin reaches down to scratch behind the dog's ears, and I watch the way his scarred hands move, gentle despite their size.
"Can I ask you something?"
He glances up. "Depends on the question."
"Why Bear?"
"What?"
"The dog. Why'd you name him Bear?"
Griffin looks down at the dog, and for the first time since I've met him, something that might be affection crosses his face. "Because when he showed up on my porch four years ago, he was about the size of a bear cub. Figured the name would fit eventually."
"Did it?"
"Look at him."
I do. Bear is sprawled under the table, taking up an absurd amount of space, his shaggy coat making him look even bigger than he already is. "Yeah. It fits."
"He's a good dog," Griffin says, and there's something almost defensive in his tone, like he expects me to argue.
"I can tell."
"He likes you."
"Is that unusual?"
"Yeah. He doesn't usually warm up to people this fast."
I'm absurdly pleased by this information, which is ridiculous. It's a dog. But still. "Maybe he has good taste."
Griffin's mouth twitches. "Maybe."
We finish our coffee, and Griffin stands, chair scraping against the worn floorboards. "I should go. It's getting dark."
He's right. Through the window, I can see the last of the daylight fading, the sky turning deep purple between the trees. The temperature has dropped noticeably even in the short time we've been sitting here, and I'm grateful for the fire crackling steadily in the stove.
"Thanks for the wood," I say, standing too. "And the fire lesson. And the axe lesson. And…"
"You're doing it again."
"What?"
"Thanking me for everything. I told you to stop."
"And I told you to stop doing things that make me want to thank you."
He looks at me for a moment, and I swear there's the ghost of a smile on his face. "Guess we're both bad at following directions."
"Guess so."
He calls Bear, who reluctantly gets to his feet and trots over, tail wagging.
Griffin heads for the door, and I follow, suddenly not wanting him to leave.
Which is absurd. I came here for solitude.
For space. For the chance to be alone with my thoughts without jumping at every loud noise or scanning every room for exits.
But standing here in the doorway watching Griffin pull on his jacket, I realize that for the last hour, I haven't thought about the robbery once. Haven't heard the alarm in my head. Haven't felt my heart racing with adrenaline I don't need.
I've just... been here. Present. Talking to someone who doesn't look at me like I'm fragile.
"Griffin," I say as he steps onto the porch.
He turns, one hand on Bear's collar. "Yeah?"
"If you wanted to… I mean, if you ever—" I stop, frustrated with myself. Just say it. "If you want to come by for coffee again. You can. You're welcome here."
He's quiet for a moment, and I can't read his expression in the fading light. Then he nods once. "I'll keep that in mind."
"Okay."
"Keep the fire going," he says. "Temperature's going to drop hard tonight."
"I will."
"And don't use all the wood at once. You need to make it last."
"I know."
"And—"
"Griffin." I cross my arms, leaning against the doorframe. "I've got it. I'm not going to freeze to death."
"Just making sure."
"I'm capable of taking care of myself."
"Didn't say you weren't."
"You're hovering."
He blinks, like the accusation caught him off guard. "I'm not hovering."
"You are. You're standing on my porch listing instructions like I'm going to forget everything the second you leave."
"You might."
"I won't."
We stare at each other, and I can see him wrestling with something, probably the need to make sure I'm okay versus the need to respect my space. Finally, he nods.
"Goodnight, Hannah."
"Goodnight, Griffin."
He and Bear disappear into the darkening trees, and I stand there on the porch longer than I should, watching until I can't see them anymore.
The air is sharp and cold, and I can see my breath fogging in front of me.
Above, the first stars are starting to appear, more than I've ever seen in the city, scattered across the sky like someone threw diamonds against black velvet.
It's beautiful up here. Quiet in a way I'm not used to, but beautiful.
I go back inside and lock the door, then spend the next hour puttering around the cabin.
I eat a can of soup heated on the wood stove: chicken noodle, the kind that tastes like childhood, and test out the generator-powered lights in each room.
Everything works. The cracked window is still a problem, but I stuff a towel along the sill to block the draft, and it helps.
By the time I'm ready for bed, the cabin is warm, the fire is burning steady, and I feel more settled than I have in weeks.
I change into flannel pajamas, brush my teeth using water from the pump, and crawl under the quilts on the bed. The mattress is lumpy and the frame creaks, but it's not terrible. I've slept on worse.
I pull out my phone and scroll through my messages. There's another one from Jenna: *Okay but seriously. Details. Is he hot? Is he a serial killer? Both?*
I type back: *Not a serial killer. Probably. Jury's still out on the hot thing.*
That's a lie. The jury is not out. Griffin is... well. He's a lot of things. Massive. Scarred. Gruff to the point of rudeness sometimes. But there's something about him that I can't stop thinking about.
How he looked at me when I told him about the robbery. Not with pity, but with understanding. The way his hands moved when he built the fire, competent and completely unfazed by the cold.
And yeah, okay, how he looked chopping wood earlier. Shirtless. All those muscles, scars and raw strength that should probably intimidate me but somehow doesn't.
My phone buzzes. Jenna: *PROBABLY NOT A SERIAL KILLER??? Hannah that's not reassuring.*
Me: *He has a dog. Serial killers don't have sweet dogs.*
Jenna: *That is literally not how that works.*
Me: *I'm fine. The cabin's fine. Everything's fine.*
Jenna: *You've said "fine" three times in one text. You're absolutely not fine.*
I stare at the message, trying to figure out how to respond. She's right, of course. I'm not fine. I'm a thousand miles from fine. But I'm here, and I'm trying, and for the first time since the robbery, I made it through an entire evening without a panic attack.
That feels like something.
Me: *I'm better than I was. That counts for something.*
Jenna: *Yeah. It does. Love you, babe. Call if you need anything.*
Me: *Love you too.*
I set my phone on the bedside table and turn off the light. The cabin plunges into darkness, broken only by the faint glow from the wood stove. Outside, I can hear the wind moving through the trees, a constant whisper that should probably be eerie but instead feels almost soothing.
I close my eyes and try to sleep.
Hours later…
I wake up at 2 AM to the sound of something moving outside.
For a moment, I'm back in the bank. The alarm is going off, there's a man with a gun, and I'm crouched behind the counter with my heart racing so hard I can feel it in my throat. I can't breathe. Can't move. Can't—
*You're not there. You're in the cabin. You're safe.*
I force myself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Counting. Grounding. All the techniques my therapist taught me.
The sound comes again, something rustling near the porch. Footsteps, maybe. Or…
The bear.
I slip out of bed as quietly as I can and move to the window, peering through the gap in the curtain. The moon is bright enough that I can see the clearing in front of the cabin, the trees beyond casting long shadows.
And there, at the edge of the clearing, is a deer.
Just a deer. A doe, actually, her head down as she nibbles at something on the ground. She's close enough that I can see her ears flick, alert for danger, the way her breath fogs in the cold air. I watch her for a long time, my heart rate slowly returning to normal. She's beautiful. Peaceful.
After a few minutes, she lifts her head, scans the clearing one more time, and disappears back into the trees.
I go back to bed, but I don't sleep right away. Instead, I lay there in the dark, listening to the wind, the crackle of the fire, and the sound of my own breathing.
I think about Griffin up the mountain in his cabin, probably already asleep. I wonder if he has nightmares. I wonder what put those scars on his body and that shadow in his eyes. I wonder if he's as alone as he seems or if he just prefers it that way.
I wonder if I'm going to make it through the next two weeks without completely losing my mind.
But for right now, in this moment, I'm okay. The cabin is warm. The fire is burning. There's a deer outside instead of a bear, and a mountain man half a mile up the road who gave me firewood and didn't ask for anything in return.
It's not much.
But it's enough.
I close my eyes and drift back to sleep, and this time, I don't dream about guns.