Page 22 of Challenged By the Mountain Man

"Didn't say you weren't."

"You're hovering."

He blinks, like the accusation caught him off guard. "I'm not hovering."

"You are. You're standing on my porch listing instructions like I'm going to forget everything the second you leave."

"You might."

"I won't."

We stare at each other, and I can see him wrestling with something, probably the need to make sure I'm okay versus the need to respect my space. Finally, he nods.

"Goodnight, Hannah."

"Goodnight, Griffin."

He and Bear disappear into the darkening trees, and I stand there on the porch longer than I should, watching until I can't see them anymore. The air is sharp and cold, and I can see my breath fogging in front of me. Above, the first stars are starting to appear, more than I've ever seen in the city, scattered across the sky like someone threw diamonds against black velvet.

It's beautiful up here. Quiet in a way I'm not used to, but beautiful.

I go back inside and lock the door, then spend the next hour puttering around the cabin. I eat a can of soup heated on the wood stove: chicken noodle, the kind that tastes like childhood, and test out the generator-powered lights in each room. Everything works. The cracked window is still a problem, but I stuff a towel along the sill to block the draft, and it helps.

By the time I'm ready for bed, the cabin is warm, the fire is burning steady, and I feel more settled than I have in weeks.

I change into flannel pajamas, brush my teeth using water from the pump, and crawl under the quilts on the bed. The mattress is lumpy and the frame creaks, but it's not terrible. I've slept on worse.

I pull out my phone and scroll through my messages. There's another one from Jenna: *Okay but seriously. Details. Is he hot? Is he a serial killer? Both?*

I type back: *Not a serial killer. Probably. Jury's still out on the hot thing.*

That's a lie. The jury is not out. Griffin is... well. He's a lot of things. Massive. Scarred. Gruff to the point of rudeness sometimes. But there's something about him that I can't stop thinking about.

How he looked at me when I told him about the robbery. Not with pity, but with understanding. The way his hands moved when he built the fire, competent and completely unfazed by the cold.

And yeah, okay, how he looked chopping wood earlier. Shirtless. All those muscles, scars and raw strength that should probably intimidate me but somehow doesn't.

My phone buzzes. Jenna: *PROBABLY NOT A SERIAL KILLER??? Hannah that's not reassuring.*

Me: *He has a dog. Serial killers don't have sweet dogs.*

Jenna: *That is literally not how that works.*

Me: *I'm fine. The cabin's fine. Everything's fine.*

Jenna: *You've said "fine" three times in one text. You're absolutely not fine.*

I stare at the message, trying to figure out how to respond. She's right, of course. I'm not fine. I'm a thousand miles from fine. But I'm here, and I'm trying, and for the first time since the robbery, I made it through an entire evening without a panic attack.

That feels like something.

Me: *I'm better than I was. That counts for something.*

Jenna: *Yeah. It does. Love you, babe. Call if you need anything.*

Me: *Love you too.*

I set my phone on the bedside table and turn off the light. The cabin plunges into darkness, broken only by the faint glow from the wood stove. Outside, I can hear the wind moving through the trees, a constant whisper that should probably be eerie but instead feels almost soothing.