Still.
I knew better.
Men like Ben didn’t come to Honey Leaf Lodge for flirtation and breakfast muffins. They came to disappear.
I watched him for a second, his gaze fixed somewhere past the front window. His profile was sharp in the morning light, all strong lines and quiet edges.
What was he seeing out there?
What was heavoiding?
I stirred my coffee to keep my hands busy and tried to sound breezy. “So… two weeks is a pretty long stay.”
He glanced at me.
I kept stirring. “Most folks do a weekend. Maybe a long one if they’re trying to recover from tax season or too much time with their in-laws.”
He didn’t say anything. He just lifted his mug and took a sip.
I let the silence stretch just a little, then added, “You planning to stay put the whole time? Or just using the lodge as a basecamp for some kind of low-key forest soul-searching?”
His brow twitched. “Something like that.”
I waited.
He didn’t elaborate.
At all.
He set his mug down and looked away again, jaw tight. He wasn’t angry, just… sealed and all locked back up.
I felt the shift immediately.
The warmth that had bloomed in the middle of our playful banter shrank like a sun ducking behind a cloud.
I’d crossed the invisible line.
And I’d done it without meaning to.
I forced a smile and tapped my fingers against the ceramic rim of my cup.
“Sorry,” I said lightly. “Didn’t mean to pry.”
“You didn’t,” he said quickly, too quickly.
Which meantyes,I had.
I took a long sip of my latte to fill the awkward space now stretching between us like a rubber band.
Ben leaned back, staring out the window again. He wasn’t stiff or cold exactly, just... gone. Retreating. Back into the place where I couldn’t follow.
And I got it. I did.
Some people needed space.
Some people weren’t ready to talk.
Some people came to Buttercup Lake tobreathe, not to have their innkeeper play accidental therapist with a side of espresso.
