4

4

Isabella. 

I baked cookies.

I don’t know what possessed me, maybe boredom, maybe the fact that I’ve only seen three people in the past five days and one of them was a raccoon. Or maybe, just maybe, I wanted an excuse to walk past a certain house in the woods and pretend I wasn’t deliberately delivering baked goods like a lovesick fool.

The cookies were chocolate chip. Classic, comfort food, but also, if I’m being honest, my signature move. Not that I have moves. But if I did, cookies would be one of them.

I wrapped them up in parchment paper and tucked them into a basket I found at the back of the cottage’s pantry. It still had a tag from some “Autumn Harvest” theme party. I took that off and tried not to think about how much effort I was putting into this. It wasn’t like I was asking him out. It was a thank you for the tire. That’s all.

The forest trail to his house was quiet and damp. Birds didn’t even bother chirping. I tried not to overthink the crunch of gravel under my boots or how I jumped every time a branch creaked overhead. The deeper into the woods I walked, the more it felt like I was entering another world.

And then I saw his house. It was big, dark and old. Not haunted-mansion old, but definitely “don’t-you-dare-touch-my-curtains” old. It was tucked between tall trees like it had grown there, not been built. It had a wide porch with cracked steps, tall windows that probably hadn’t been opened since dial-up internet. The whole place looked like it could give you life advice or kill you in your sleep. I wasn’t sure which.

I stood at the edge of the path, clutching the basket while trying to decide if this was creepy. It was definitely creeping me out. I mean, who does this? Who bakes for strangers they’ve only met once, in the rain, no less, and then shows up at their house uninvited?

Apparently, me.

I climbed the steps slowly, half-expecting the porch to collapse under my weight. It didn’t. Good sign. I placed the basket gently by the door, then stared at it like it might jump up and embarrass me further. I reached into my jacket and pulled out the little note I’d written:

Thank you for the help. – Isabella.

I liked it. It was short, not too friendly, not too formal too. It was just enough to say “I’m not stalking you,” even if the basket screamed otherwise.

I stepped back, stood there and debated knocking.

I didn’t.

I turned and walked quickly down the path, pretending I didn’t just feel eyes on the back of my neck the whole way. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was a squirrel. Maybe he was watching me from the window, thinking I was insane. Probably.

When I got back to the cottage, I kicked off my boots, made tea, and sat by the window, watching the trees sway. It was one of those quiet afternoons that stretched long and slow. The kind of afternoons that made you notice things like dust motes and the sound of your own breath.

And for reasons I didn’t fully understand, I opened my laptop and started to write. And no it was not the usual stuff, not my carefully plotted erotica with pacing guides and scene templates and slow-burn payoff. This was different and more immediate. It started with a girl, alone in the woods, and a man with storm-colored eyes who appeared out of nowhere.

She didn’t know his name. She didn’t know why he looked at her like he recognized something in her face, something he’d been searching for and dreading all at once. All she knew was the way her breath caught when he stepped closer. The way her skin lit up like it had been waiting for him, even if her brain screamed for distance.

The story practically wrote itself. I didn’t think about the rules or the tropes or the tropes about the rules. Somewhere between the second paragraph and the fifth, the story took a sharp left into danger and heat.

She stood barefoot in her kitchen, a storm outside, him standing there in her doorway. She was supposed to thank him, maybe offer tea, definitely keep it innocent.

But his eyes and voice was intoxicating. 

And when she offered the tea, he didn’t answer. He just looked at her like he wanted to taste her instead. And she let him.

It was stupid, reckless, unrealistic, and completely intoxicating.

By the time I reached the part where he lifted her onto the counter, my tea had gone cold. The mug sat forgotten beside me, and my fingers hovered over the keys, pausing just long enough for me to realize what I was doing.

I was writing about him.

Not him-him. I mean, obviously, it was fiction. My fictional man didn’t live in a decaying Gothic house or have a name like “Noah.” He was taller, meaner, had a scar on his jaw and no manners. Totally made up, clearly.

Except for the way his eyes darkened when he looked at her.

That part was definitely inspired.

I closed the laptop before I could embarrass myself further. Then I reopened it just to reread the last few paragraphs. For research purposes.

Look, the truth is, I’ve never been great at boundaries when it comes to writing. Real life bleeds into the page, whether I want it to or not. I could try to tell myself it’s just the isolation, or the thunder, or the scent of pine soaking into my brain. But I’d be lying.

There’s something about him, even if he barely said ten words, even if he looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but helping me.

Even if he’s a complete stranger with possibly serial-killer tendencies and a stare that could flatten your soul.

Actually, maybe because of all that.

God, I need hobbies.

I wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge. I had just leftover pasta and one depressing bottle of white wine I bought on discount. I poured a glass and took it to the porch, curling into the creaky rocking chair like some old widow waiting for the war to end.

The sky had started to clear. Pinks and oranges leaked through the trees.

The house, I noticed, looked even darker now in the fading light. I could barely make out the roof through the trees. But it was there. Just enough to remind me I wasn’t alone out here, not really.

Which should’ve been creepy. Probably was. Instead, it felt weirdly… safe.

I’d spent months feeling like the whole world hated me. Like every whisper was about how I’d failed, how I was a fraud, how I’d fumbled the one thing I’d built my life around. And then he’d shown up in the middle of a storm and helped me, like he didn’t care about any of that.

He just fixed the tire, said my name once and drove away.

That was it. And still, he’s in my head like I invited him there.

I took another sip of wine and curled deeper into the chair. Maybe I was losing it. Wouldn’t be the first time. Moving to a haunted town alone after a public scandal wasn’t exactly in the “emotionally stable adult” handbook.

But this place… it’s doing something to me. Maybe healing, maybe unraveling. Or maybe they’re the same thing.

The porch creaked again, not from me this time, and I froze. I told myself it was just the wind.

Still, I sat up straighter. The shadows had shifted. Not enough to be obvious, just enough to make me feel watched. I peered into the trees, but there was nothing.

I wasn’t scared, not really.

Just… aware.

My phone buzzed inside the house. I nearly fell out of the chair, heart racing, cursing my stupid nerves. I got up, wine in hand, and shuffled back in.

It was a text from an unknown number.

Unknown:

Hope the cookies weren’t poisoned.

I stared at it. My stomach dropped and flipped and somersaulted in that annoying way it does when life suddenly feels like a movie.

Me:

Well, you didn’t die, so I’d say it was a success.

Three dots blinked.

Unknown:

Didn’t eat them. But my house smells like sugar now. So thanks.

So he had seen them, read the note and texted me.

Which meant…

I blinked down at the screen.

Me:

You got my number?

Unknown:

Small town. I asked around. Don’t worry, I’m not a stalker. Just not great at saying thank you in person.

I smiled despite myself.

Me:

Noted. Next time I’ll bring pie. Maybe that’ll crack your conversation barrier.

There was a pause and it was longer this time.

Unknown:

Don’t.

Okay then.

That smile wilted a bit, but I rolled with it.

Me:

Message received. No pie. Just silence and awkward glances at grocery stores.

There was no response. I waited a few minutes, then locked the phone and tossed it on the couch. Whatever. He didn’t owe me anything. I’d already gotten more of a reply than I expected.

I turned off the li ghts, brushed my teeth, climbed into bed, but I didn’t sleep right away.

Instead, I kept thinking of how, maybe, I was writing more truth than fiction.