“This is where my family used to come when I was a kid,” I tell her, looking up at the weathered log walls. “It was home away from home.”
“I love it,” she sighs, eyes bright with wonder.
It’s been years since I’ve stepped foot here. The memories hit like a punch — my mum in the kitchen humming as she cooked, my dad and I building puzzles by the fire. We’d frame the hard ones and hang them on the wall, little trophies of time well spent. Ben was too young to sit still long enough for puzzles, so he’d stay with Mum, probably breaking something while she laughed and fixed it again.
“Does the fireplace work?” Matilda asks, running a finger along the mantle.
“I hope so. The heating’s a bit unpredictable out here,” I say, earning that easy smile I’ve grown addicted to.
She drops her bag onto the floor with a soft thud. “So, what do we do first?”
“Whatever you want,” I tell her. “There are walking trails nearby, a few old board games in the cupboard. I had groceriesdelivered this morning — Jenny, the cleaner, put everything away for us. We don’t have to leave until Sunday if we don’t want to.”
Her head tilts, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “So you’re telling me we have this entire cabin to ourselves for three days. No work, no emails, no interruptions?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
Before I can say another word, she strides toward me with that devilish grin that never fails to undo me. I grab her by the waist, pulling her down onto the sofa with me, and her laugh fills the cabin — light, infectious, and so damn beautiful.
“Hello, Miss Green.”
“Hello, Mr Chase.”
She’s been calling me that for days now. I pretend it annoys me, but the truth is I love the way it sounds when she says it — like a secret between us.
I brush a curl behind her ear, and before I can talk myself out of it, my mouth is on hers. She tastes like strawberries and honey — soft, warm, addictive. Every breath, every sound she makes drives me closer to the edge.
Before long, clothes are an afterthought. We move together, slow at first, then urgent. Her skin is soft beneath my hands, her laughter breathless against my neck. By the time we collapse onto the rug in front of the fire, we’re both spent, tangled under a blanket and wrapped in the kind of silence I haven’t felt in years.
“I’m dead,” she mumbles into my chest, and I laugh quietly, pressing a kiss to her hair.
“Do you want me to light the fire?”
She hums a sleepy “yes,” so I slip away and get to work. Soon, the flames crackle and dance, painting her skin in shades of gold.
When she comes back from the bathroom, she’s wrapped in the blanket, clutching a box to her chest and grinning.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Monopoly,” she says, beaming.
“Oh, God.”
“What?” she laughs. “You don’t like Monopoly?”
“I love it,” I say. “But I’m ridiculously competitive. I’d rather not scare you off just yet.”
“Oh really?” She smirks, sitting cross-legged on the rug. “Well, I happen to beverycompetitive too. And I don’t scare easily, Mr Chase.”
Her playful tone makes me grin, but her words sting a little. For a second, I remember how awful I used to be to her — sharp words, cold glares, pushing her away for no reason other than I didn’t know how to let anyone in.
I can’t remember the last time I felt that kind of anger. Maybe she took it with her when she walked into my life.
We play for hours — the fire roaring, her laughter echoing through the cabin, the sun melting into dusk. She beats me mercilessly, and I don’t even care. Watching her grin, wild curls tumbling into her face, I realise something monumental.
This is the happiest I’ve been in years. And it terrifies me how much I don’t want to lose it.
The next morning drifts by in a haze of quiet contentment. We eat croissants on the porch, coffee steaming in the cool air, the forest stretching endlessly around us. She’s radiant in the sunlight, hair tangled, eyes sleepy, wrapped in my jumper.
