Chapter 10 - Griffin
Eight years.
Eight years of isolation, of convincing myself that I'm better off alone. That the mountain is the only place I can breathe without feeling like I'm drowning in the weight of everything I've lost.
And now I'm lying here with a woman I met forty-eight hours ago, her body warm and soft against mine, her breathing already evening out into sleep, and I'm wondering how the hell I'm supposed to let her leave in twelve days.
The fire crackles in the stove, casting dancing shadows across the cabin walls. Outside, the wind moves through the trees with a sound like the ocean. Everything is exactly as it should be: quiet, peaceful, isolated.
Except it's not just me anymore.
Hannah shifts slightly, her hand moving to rest on my chest, right over my heart. Her fingers are small and delicate against my scarred skin, and I can feel the phantom weight of everything that just happened between us.
I took her virginity.
The thought should probably scare me more than it does.
Should make me feel guilty for being so goddamn selfish, for not sending her away the second I realized how drawn to her I was.
But I can't regret it. Can't regret the way she looked at me like I was something other than broken.
Can't regret the sounds she made or the way she felt around me or the trust in her eyes when she said she was sure.
What does this mean?
Is she my savior? The thought is ridiculous. I don't believe in saviors or soulmates or any of that romantic bullshit. I believe in survival. In taking each day as it comes. In not expecting anything from anyone because expectations only lead to disappointment.
But lying here with her, feeling her heartbeat against my ribs, I'm starting to wonder if maybe I've been wrong.
Maybe there are people who come into your life and change everything.
Maybe there are connections that defy logic, timelines and all the reasons you've built for keeping people at arm's length.
Maybe she's mine.
The thought should disturb me. We've known each other two days. Two fucking days. That's not enough time to build anything real, anything lasting. That's barely enough time to learn someone's last name, let alone decide you can't imagine your life without them in it.
But here I am, already trying to figure out how to ask her to stay.
Can I even do that? Can I ask someone who came here to escape, to heal, to trade her two weeks of peace for a life on this mountain with a man who wakes up screaming half the time?
A man whose idea of social interaction is a monthly trip to town for supplies?
A man who's so fundamentally broken that he chose to live like a hermit rather than inflict himself on the world?
She deserves better than that.
She deserves someone who can take her to dinner without having a panic attack at the noise. Someone who doesn't have nightmares about watching his friends die. Someone who isn't carrying eight years of self-imposed isolation like a fucking badge of honor.
But even knowing that, I can't bring myself to pull away. Can't bring myself to start building the walls back up that she somehow demolished in less than two days.
Would I be willing to change for her?
The question sits heavy in my chest. Change how? Give up the mountain? Move back to civilization where every loud noise sets my teeth on edge and every crowd feels like a threat? I don't know if I can do that. Don't know if I'm capable of being the person she needs me to be.
But maybe there's a compromise. Maybe there's a way for both of us to have what we need without either of us giving up everything. Maybe I don't have to ask her to abandon her entire life, and maybe I don't have to abandon mine either.
Maybe that's just wishful thinking from a man who hasn't had anything to wish for in eight years.
"You're brooding again," Hannah murmurs against my chest, and I realize I've been tense, my muscles locked up with the weight of thoughts I don't know how to process.
I force myself to relax, my hand moving to stroke her hair. "How can you tell?"
"I can feel it. You're all rigid and thinky."
"Thinky isn't a word."
"It is now." She props herself up on one elbow to look at me, and even in the dim firelight I can see the satisfied flush still on her cheeks, the marks I left on her neck. "What were you thinking about?"
I should lie. Should tell her I was just listening to the fire or thinking about what needs to be done tomorrow. But she just gave me something precious, something she'd never given anyone else. How could I ever lie to her?
"I was thinking about what happens after your two weeks here," I say.
"Oh."
"Yeah."
She's quiet for a moment, her finger tracing idle patterns on my chest. "What about it?"
"You're going to leave," I say, and the words taste bitter. "You're going to go back to your life, your job, your town. And I'm going to stay here."
"Is that what you want?"
The question catches me off guard. "What I want?"
"Yeah." She sits up fully now. "Do you want me to leave after two weeks?"
"No." The word comes out before I can stop it. "But I don't know what the alternative is. I don't know how to ask for what I want when I don't even know if it's possible."
"Try me," she says.
I sit up too, running a hand through my hair. "I want you to stay. In some capacity. Any capacity. But I know that's insane. We've known each other two days, and I can't ask you to upend your entire life for someone you just met. That's not fair to you."
"What if I want to?"
"You don't know that yet," I say. "You don't know me well enough to make that decision. And I don't know you well enough to ask it of you, no matter how much I want to."
She's quiet for a long moment, studying my face in the firelight. "So, what do we do?"
"I don't know." I shake my head, frustrated with myself. "All I know is that I don't want this to end when your two weeks are up. I don't want to go back to—" I gesture around the cabin. "To this being my entire world again. Not after knowing what it feels like to have you in it."
Her expression softens. "I don't want that either."
"Then help me figure this out. Because I'm shit at this. I haven't had to think about anyone but myself in eight years, and I don't know how to do this without fucking it up."
She reaches out and takes my hand, lacing her fingers through mine. "What if we didn't rush it?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, what if I didn't go back to my old life, but I also didn't jump straight into living on a mountain with someone I just met?" She bites her lip, thinking. "Wildwood has apartments, right? Jobs?"
Understanding starts to dawn. "You want to move to Wildwood?"
"Maybe. If that's something you'd be okay with." She squeezes my hand. "I could get a place in town, find a job… There's got to be a bank or something that needs tellers. And we could... see where this goes. Without the pressure of me giving up everything or you having to change who you are."
"You'd do that?"
"I'd like to try," she says. "I don't have anything tying me to where I am now except a lease and a job I don't particularly care about. And this way, we get to actually know each other. Date like normal people, or whatever version of normal works for us."
"I'm not good at going into town," I warn her. "Even for you, I don't know if I can—"
"I know." She shifts closer, her free hand coming up to cup my face. "And I'm not asking you to. You come down when you can, when you want to. I'll come up here when I can. We figure it out as we go, no pressure, no expectations beyond wanting to see where this leads."
"What if it doesn't work? What if you get down there and realize this was just... two days of insanity?"
"Then at least I'll have tried," she says. "At least I'll have gotten away from my old life and started somewhere new. But Griffin?" She leans in until her forehead is resting against mine. "I don't think that's going to happen. I think whatever this is, it's real. I think it's worth fighting for."
"You barely know me," I say, but even as the words come out, I know they're not entirely true. She knows the important parts. She knows I'm damaged, difficult and that I live like a hermit. She knows about the nightmares and the isolation and all the reasons I should send her away.
And she's still here.
"I know enough," she says. "I know you broke into my cabin to make sure I didn't freeze to death. I know you taught me to split wood and build fires and jump into freezing waterfalls. I know you make me feel safer than I've felt in three weeks. That's enough to want to try."
I look at her, this woman who crashed into my life two days ago and somehow managed to demolish every wall I spent eight years building, and I realize she's offering me exactly what I need. Not a commitment I'm not ready for, not a demand that I change who I am, just... possibility. A chance.
"Okay," I say. "Okay, we try it your way."
Her smile is bright enough to rival the fire. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I pull her into my lap, and she comes willingly, wrapping her arms around my neck. "You move to Wildwood. You get a job, a place. We see each other when we can. We take it slow."
"Slow," she agrees, then grins. "Well, slower than jumping into bed after two days."
"That ship has sailed," I point out, and she laughs.
"It really has." She kisses me, soft and sweet. "But we can slow down from here. Get to know each other properly. Go on actual dates."
"I don't know how to date," I admit.
"Neither do I. We'll figure it out together."
I kiss her again, already thinking about what this means. She'll be forty minutes away instead of hundreds of miles. Close enough to visit. Close enough that I could actually try to make this work without either of us sacrificing everything we are.
"When will you go back?" I ask when we finally break apart.
"End of the two weeks, like planned. I need to give notice, pack up my stuff, say goodbye to my best friend Jenna." She traces my jaw with her fingers. "But I'll come back. A month, maybe six weeks to get everything sorted. And then I'll be in Wildwood."
"You're sure about this?"
"I'm sure I want to try," she says. "The rest we'll figure out as we go."
It's not a guarantee. It's not a promise that this will work out perfectly, that we won't hit obstacles or that either of us won't change our minds. But it's real. It's honest. It's a chance at something I didn't think I'd ever have again.
"Okay," I say again, and this time it feels like a commitment. A promise that I'm going to try too. That I'm going to come down the mountain when I can, that I'm going to let her in, that I'm going to do my damnedest to make this work.
She settles against my chest, and we lie back down together, her body fitting against mine like she was made for it.
"Griffin?" she murmurs after a moment.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For being willing to try this with me."
"Thank you for not asking me to be someone I'm not."
"I don't want you to be anyone else," she says. "I like you exactly as you are. Grumpy mountain man and all."
I huff something that might be a laugh and pull her closer. "Get some sleep. We've got the rest of your two weeks to figure out the details."
"Mm. Good plan."
She drifts off within minutes, her breathing evening out, her body relaxed and trusting against mine. I stay awake longer, staring at the ceiling, thinking about what comes next.
It won't be easy. Long-distance relationships, even ones that are only forty minutes apart, take work. And I'm not exactly built for easy communication or emotional availability. I'm going to fuck up. Probably more than once.
But she's willing to try anyway.
And for her, I'm willing to try too.
Maybe I can't give her everything. Maybe I can't be the kind of partner who takes her to fancy restaurants or busy social events. Maybe I'll always need the mountain, the solitude, the quiet that keeps me sane.
But maybe I can give her enough. Maybe slow and steady and willing to try is enough to build something real.
Maybe we don't have to have all the answers right now.
When I finally fall asleep, tangled together with her in the too-small bed with Bear back and now curled up on the rug in front of the fire, I don't have nightmares. I sleep straight through the night, dreamless and peaceful.
And when I wake up to morning light filtering through the cracked window and Hannah's soft breathing against my chest, I realize something.
I'm not alone anymore.
I don't have to be.
She stirs against me, her eyes fluttering open, and when she sees me watching her, she smiles.
"Morning," she murmurs.
"Morning."
"Still okay with the plan?"
"Yeah," I say, and I mean it. "Still okay with the plan."
She kisses me, and I kiss her back, already thinking about the next twelve days we have together. Twelve days to show her everything about the mountain, to teach her what she needs to know, to build a foundation for whatever comes next.
And then she'll leave.
But she'll come back.
That's the promise we're making to each other. Not forever, not right now, just... we'll try.
And somehow, that's enough.