Page 19 of Challenged By the Mountain Man

"That's the point."

She wraps her hands around her mug, looking down into the dark liquid. "I get that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She's quiet for a moment, and I can see her deciding how much to say. "I came up here because I needed to get away. From people. From noise. From... everything."

I wait. I'm not going to push, but I can tell there's more.

"There was a robbery," she finally confesses, her voice trembling. "At the bank where I work. Three weeks ago. A guy came in with a gun, pointed it at me and told me to empty my drawer."

"You got hurt?"

"No. Nobody did. He got the money and left. The whole thing was over in five minutes." She looks up at me, and her eyes are hard, like she's daring me to say something sympathetic. "But I can't stop replaying it. Can't stop seeing the gun. Can't stop feeling like I'm going to turn around and it'll be there again."

I know that feeling. The loop your brain gets stuck in, the way trauma doesn't care that you're safe now, doesn't care that it's over. It just plays the same scene again and again until you can't tell what's real anymore.

"So, you came up here," I say.

"So, I came up here. Two weeks of forced vacation, doctor's orders. Supposed to rest, recover, get my head straight." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Instead, I'm in a cabin with no power, learning to split wood from a hermit who clearly wants nothing to do with me."

Chapter 5 - Hannah

*A hermit who clearly wants nothing to do with me.*

It came out sharper than I meant it to, more bitter. Like an accusation. Like I'm hurt by it, which is insane because I've known this man for all of thirty-six hours and I came up here specifically to be alone, so what do I care if he wants nothing to do with me?

Except he's sitting at my table drinking coffee he didn't have to accept. He just spent an hour teaching me how to split wood and build a fire. He gave me a generator and a wheelbarrow full of seasoned firewood and didn't ask for anything in return.

So maybe "clearly wants nothing to do with me" isn't entirely accurate.

Griffin looks at me for a long moment, those ice-blue eyes steady. Then he says, "If I wanted nothing to do with you, I wouldn't be here."

"Then why are you here?"

It's a genuine question. I need to know. Because everything I learned growing up, everything I've experienced in my twenty-eight years, has taught me that people don't help without wanting something. My father wanted a place to crash when he was between jobs and girlfriends. My mother wanted someone to justify all the sacrifice, all the long hours, all the exhaustion. My ex wanted someone who wouldn't ask too many questions about where he was on Thursday nights.

Everyone wants something.

Griffin takes a sip of his coffee, and I watch his throat work as he swallows. He sets the mug down like he's buying himself time to think.

"Because I remember what it's like," he says finally. "To come to a place like this looking for quiet. For space. For the chance to just... breathe." He meets my eyes. "And I remember how much harder it is when you don't know what you're doing."

"So, this is pity."

"No." The word is firm, almost sharp. "This is knowing what you need and having the means to provide it. That's all."

"That simple?"

"Yeah, Hannah. That simple."

I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him. But the part of my brain that's been overthinking threats and calculating costs for all my life won't let me. It keeps searching for the angle, the catch, the moment when the price gets revealed.

"You're doing it again," Griffin says.

"Doing what?"

"Looking for the trap."