The inside wasn’t much better.
The cabin was exactly what you’d expect from a guy who lived alone—wood floors, a leather couch, a single shelf of books that leaned like they were drunk, and a fireplace I kept meaning to fix but never did. It was masculine, sure, but not cozy.
Cozy required effort.
And the truth was, I’d been running on autopilot for a long time.
Work. Sleep. Repeat.
Unless Melanie was in town.
Then I suddenly remembered what living felt like.
I dropped my keys on the counter and sighed. She’d probably be gone again soon. Every time she came back, she acted like she was allergic to staying. Seattle called to her like a siren—bright lights, big city, endless distractions. And then there was me. Mr. Flannel and Whiskey, king of The Rusty Stag, and her favorite bad decision.
Now she wanted dinner.
Demanded it, actually.
I grinned to myself, kicking off my boots.
I walked through the small living room and into my bedroom, which was as bare bones as the rest of the place with merely a king bed, flannel sheets, a dresser, and a single lamp that gave off about as much light as a dying candle. The window overlooked the river, now half frozen, the water whispering under a layer of snow-dusted ice.
Rustic, manly, quiet. The kind of space that echoed when you didn’t have anyone to share it with.
“Maybe I should get a dog,” I said aloud, stripping off my flannel and tossing it onto the bed. “Dogs don’t argue about flirting.”
The shower groaned when I turned it on, pipes rattling like they were trying to shake off frostbite. I stepped under the hot spray and let it pound against my shoulders, washing away the cold and maybe a little of the restlessness that had been sitting there since this morning.
A Dad.
The idea still felt foreign. Heavy in a way that made my chest tighten. I wasn’t sure if it was longing or fear.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I told the tiles. “You can barely commit to grocery shopping.”
But there it was anyway…that annoying flicker of wanting something more.
I shut off the water, grabbed a towel, and stepped into the steam-fogged mirror. My reflection stared back, rough around the edges, a few days’ worth of stubble, hair damp and sticking up in all directions.
“Uncle Drew,” I said, pointing at the mirror. “Coolest uncle in the Pacific Northwest. Not ready for anything else.”
The reflection didn’t look convinced.
I laughed quietly, shaking my head. “Great. Now I’m arguing with myself. Fantastic sign.”
I dressed slowly in dark jeans, a clean black T-shirt, and a flannel that wasn’t covered in flour or beer this time. When I caught sight of the tattoo on my forearm in the mirror, the one she’d noticed earlier today, and I traced a thumb over it without meaning to.
A date. A moment I didn’t want to forget, even when she tried to.
“Dinner,” I said to my reflection, buttoning the shirt. “That’s all it is. You’re feeding her, not falling for her again.”
The reflection raised a skeptical brow.
“Fine,” I muttered. “You’re feeding herandfalling for her a little.”
I ran a hand through my hair, grabbed my jacket, and glanced toward the window again. The snow was coming down heavier now, blanketing the riverbank in white. The whole world looked hushed, slowed down, like it was holding its breath.
It made me think of her laugh at the festival, the way her cheeks flushed when she argued with me, the way her eyes softened when she thought I wasn’t looking.
