"Hi!" I call out, lowering my camera but not turning it off. My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "I'm so sorry to intrude. I was following a trail, and I didn't realize anyone lived up here."
He still doesn't speak. His jaw works beneath the beard, like he's chewing on words he doesn't want to say.
I shift my weight from foot to foot, suddenly very aware of how alone I am. How far from help. How no one knows exactly where I am because I went off-trail like an idiot.
My mom's warnings echo in my head: *There are things up there that don't like to be disturbed.*
"I'm Autumn," I try again, taking a small step forward. "I do travel vlogs, like video blogs? About interesting places and—"
"Leave."
The word comes out like gravel scraping against stone. His voice is deep, rough from disuse, and absolutely final.
I blink. "I'm sorry?"
"Leave," he repeats, still not moving from the porch. "Now."
Okay, rude. But also fascinating.
"I'm not trying to cause trouble," I say, keeping my voice friendly despite the ice in my veins. "I was just surprised to find someone living all the way out here. It must be—"
"I don't care what you were doing." He takes a step forward, and I'm suddenly very aware of how much bigger he is than me. How much stronger. "This is private property. You're trespassing."
"There aren't any signs—"
"Shouldn't need signs this far from civilization." Another step. The porch boards creak under his weight. "Turn around. Walk back the way you came. Don't come back."
My journalistic curiosity wars with my survival instinct. This man clearly wants nothing to do with me, clearly wants to be left alone in his remote mountain fortress. The smart thing would be to apologize and leave.
But I can see it in his eyes, in the tension of his shoulders, in the way his massive hands are clenched into fists at his sides.
There's a story here.
A big one.
"Look," I say, raising my hands in a placating gesture. The camera dangles from the strap around my wrist, still recording. "I get it. You value your privacy. That's why you're all the way up here, right? I respect that. But I've hiked twelve miles today and it's getting dark, and I'm honestly not sure I can make it back to town before nightfall."
It's not entirely a lie. The sun is definitely sinking, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink through the trees. And while I have a headlamp in my pack, hiking these mountains in the dark would be stupid even for me.
"Not my problem," he says, but there's less conviction in his voice.
"I'm not asking to stay or anything," I continue quickly, sensing an opening. "I just… Could I maybe fill my water bottle from your stream? And rest for like twenty minutes? Then I'll be out of your hair, I promise."
He stares at me for a long moment. Up close, well, closer, I can see the scars. They're everywhere. A thick one bisecting his left eyebrow. Another along his jawline, disappearing into his beard. His hands, when he unclenches them, are a roadmap of old wounds.
This man has seen violence. Has lived it.
My heart pounds, but not entirely from fear. There's something else there. A pull, almost, like standing too close to a bonfire.
"Twenty minutes," he finally growls. "Then you leave and you don't come back. You don't tell anyone about this place. You delete whatever footage you just took."
"Deal," I say quickly, before he can change his mind.
He jerks his head toward the stream. "Water's there. Don't touch anything else."
Then he turns and stalks back into the cabin, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
