Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

T amlyn

The fire crackles softly in the hearth, its flickering light casting long, dancing shadows across the walls of my cabin. Barron's been here for exactly five minutes and already I feel that familiar tension pulling in the base of my gut. It's like my body has an instinctual pull to him, like we're magnets, impossible to separate. I sit on the worn leather couch, staring into the flames, feeling both out of place and completely at home. There's something about this cabin—about the way it smells of pine and wood smoke, the solidness of it—that wraps around me like a heavy blanket, warm and comforting, but also heavy. Too heavy.

The silence between us stretches, but it isn't awkward. It's thick, though, like the air is loaded with words we're both too afraid to say. I glance across the room at Barron, sitting in the corner chair, staring into the fire with that faraway look he gets sometimes. His eyes are darker than usual, shadowed by something deeper, and I know he's holding something back.

I wait, letting the silence press against my skin. There's no need to rush. Whatever's weighing on him, it's big, and I can feel the tension in the room, like the moment before a storm hits. I don't push, though. I've learned that with Barron, you have to let him come to you. I still can't figure out why he's here, what drove him to my cabin in the early evening like he has something to say.

He exhales, a long, slow breath that seems to carry the weight of the world, and finally, he speaks. "There's something I haven't told you." His voice is low, rough, like it's been scraped against gravel. He doesn't look at me as he says it, his gaze fixed on the flames, the words heavy on his tongue. "Something that I think will help explains some things about me."

I feel my heart tighten in my chest, a knot of anxiety forming in my throat. I don't say anything, just wait for him to continue. I can sense this is going to be hard for him, and somehow, I already know whatever he's about to say will change things between us. It has to.

"There was a girl once," he starts, his voice barely above a whisper. "Back when I was young. We were in love—first love, you know?" He swallows hard, and I can see the way his hands clench into fists, his knuckles white. "She was… everything to me. We grew up together. She used to drive up the mountain to see me every weekend. And then, one night, there was a storm."

I know where this is going before he says it. The pain in his voice tells me enough, but I don't interrupt. I can feel my own chest tightening with dread, but I stay silent.

"A tree fell," he says, his voice hoarse now. "It crushed her car. She never made it." His eyes flicker toward me, just for a second, before returning to the fire. "I didn't even know until the next morning. They couldn't reach me, and by the time I found out… it was too late."

The silence that follows is suffocating. I can see the pain etched into every line of his face, the way his jaw tightens, the way his fists stay clenched like he's still holding on to something he can't let go. It's the kind of pain that doesn't go away, not really. It just gets buried deep, like a splinter that works its way under your skin and festers.

I don't know what to say. I've never been good with this kind of thing—loss, grief, love. My whole life has been about avoiding all of that. It's easier not to get attached, not to let anyone in. But Barron… he's different. He's strong in ways I can't even begin to understand, but right now, he looks vulnerable, raw.

And it scares the hell out of me.

I swallow hard, my voice trembling as I speak. "I'm so sorry, Barron."

He shakes his head, his jaw still clenched tight. "Don't be. It's not your fault. It's just… it's why I've kept my distance. Why I don't let people in. It's easier that way."

I get it. I get it more than he knows. "I've been running my whole life," I confess, the words slipping out before I can stop them. My heart races, but once I start, I can't seem to hold back. "My dad's job with the military kept us moving when I was a kid—different countries, different cities. I never stayed anywhere long enough to get attached. And now, I guess I've just… kept running. I'm always moving on to the next project, the next place. It's easier that way, you know? No ties, no risks."

Barron's eyes lift to meet mine, and for the first time, I see something flicker there—understanding, maybe. Or recognition. I don't know, but it's enough to make me keep going. "It's not just the moving," I admit. "It's the fear of getting attached, of putting down roots and risking losing everything. It's easier to stay detached. To stay… safe."

He's watching me now, his dark eyes fixed on mine, and I can feel the tension between us, the weight of everything we've just shared hanging in the air. We're both scared. Scared of getting hurt, scared of letting someone in, scared of loving someone and losing them. But in this moment, I feel something else, too—something stronger than fear.

"I don't know if I can stay," I whisper, my voice barely audible. "I don't know if I can stop running."

Barron leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes never leaving mine. "You don't have to know," he says softly. "Maybe you don't have to stop running. Maybe you just need to slow down. Take a breath."

His words hang in the air, and for a moment, I just stare at him, feeling my heart race, feeling the pull between us. I want to believe him. I want to believe that I can stop, that I can stay. But it's terrifying.

"I don't know if I'm ready," I admit, the fear creeping back into my voice.

Barron reaches out, his hand brushing lightly against mine, and the warmth of his touch sends a jolt of electricity through me. "Maybe neither of us is," he murmurs, his voice rough but tender. "But we don't have to be ready. We just have to be willing to try."

His words hit me harder than I expect, and suddenly, I feel the weight of everything lifting, just a little. He's right. Maybe we don't have to have it all figured out. Maybe we just have to take it one step at a time.

I lean into his touch, my fingers curling around his, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself feel the possibility of something more. Something real.

The fire crackles softly beside us, and the cabin feels warm, safe. I don't know what's going to happen next. I don't know if I can stay, if I can stop running. But for the first time, I'm willing to try.

The cabin feels smaller now, the air thick with everything unspoken between us. The crackle of the fire is the only sound, filling the silence that stretches like a tightrope between Barron and me. His words are still hanging in the air, echoing in my mind. You don't have to run anymore.

My heart thuds in my chest, the weight of his vulnerability cracking something open inside me, something I've tried so hard to keep buried. I've never stayed in one place long enough to let someone in, to let myself feel this. But now, with Barron sitting across from me, his eyes dark and searching, I feel my defenses slipping, crumbling under the weight of his honesty.

He leans in, his movements slow, as if testing the waters, unsure of what comes next. My breath catches as his lips brush against mine, soft at first—tentative. But there's an intensity beneath it, a quiet urgency that pulls me in. I can't stop it. I don't want to stop it.

I kiss him back, and it's slow, deliberate, like we're both exploring something neither of us knows how to handle but can't walk away from. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, the roughness of his calloused palm grounding me, anchoring me to the moment. My hands find their way to his chest, resting over the steady beat of his heart. It's strong, solid, a steady rhythm beneath my palms, and I press closer, feeling the warmth of him seep into me.

I'm scared. Scared of what this means, scared of the way my body reacts to his touch, the way my heart skips a beat every time he looks at me like I'm something he's trying to figure out. But in this moment, as his lips move against mine, I know one thing—I don't want to run anymore. Not from him.

We pull away slowly, our breaths mingling in the space between us. My heart pounds in my chest, and when I look into his eyes, I see that same uncertainty staring back at me. He's just as unsure as I am, but there's something else there too—something that makes my chest tighten.

Hope.

It lingers in his gaze, that flicker of something more, something real. And it scares the hell out of me, but it also makes me want to reach for it. Maybe we're both too broken, both carrying too much, but I feel like we've just stumbled onto something that could make all of it worthwhile.

We sit in silence for a long time, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the soft, steady rhythm of our breathing. I lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder. His arm slips around me, his hand resting gently on my back, the weight of it comforting. The warmth from the fire wraps around us like a protective cocoon, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself enjoy the moment.

I close my eyes, letting the steady beat of his heart lull me into a sense of calm. I'm still scared. I'm still not sure if I can stay, if I can be the person who settles down, who doesn't keep running. But with Barron, it feels different. He's steady, like the mountain itself, and for the first time, I'm willing to try.

Maybe we're both scarred, both carrying things we can't ever fully let go of. But maybe that's okay. Maybe we don't have to be perfect. Maybe we can heal each other, piece by piece, one step at a time.

And for now, sitting here with him in this quiet, peaceful moment, that's enough.