Chapter 3 Mia's Pov

I did not sleep at all that night. 

I lay on the couch that Ethan had offered me, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly of laundry soap and woodsmoke, staring at the ceiling while the storm argued with the walls. Every gust rattled something and every crack of ice outside made my muscles jump.

This was not my space, I thought and it sat heavy on my chest.

The fire had burned low and the room glowed dim orange, shadows stretching and shrinking with each pop of the logs. Somewhere deeper in the cabin, a floorboard creaked. I wondered if Ethan heard it too. I wondered if he was lying awake like me, cataloguing every sound, every risk.

I turned onto my side just then. 

The couch was comfortable enough, but it was not comfort I missed. It was permission. Permission to relax. To exist without feeling like I was intruding.

My phone lay on the coffee table next to me, useless and dark.

I closed my eyes finally after several minutes.

Sleep came in fragments. Short, shallow drops where my body sank for a minute before snapping awake again. Once, I dreamed I was back in my Boston apartment, staring at my laptop while snow crept under the door like fog. Another time, I dreamed of the glow in the storm, only this time it went out before I reached it.

When I woke for real, the cabin smelled like coffee.

The storm still howled but the light through the windows had changed. It was morning light, thin and gray, coming through the windows.

I sat up slowly, joints stiff, blanket slipping to my lap. I stood, barefoot now, and padded toward the kitchen.

Ethan stood at the counter, mug in hand, shoulders squared like he was bracing himself against more than just weather. He wore a plain T-shirt this time, sleeves stretched slightly over his arms. The firelight from last night had hidden things daylight did not. A faint scar was at his collarbone. A tired line between his brows. I stared at him for a minute too long.

He turned when he heard me.

“You sleep,” he asked.

It was not quite a question.

“A little,” I said. “You?”

“Enough.”

That felt like the truth even if it was incomplete.

Lily sat at the table, legs swinging, Rudy tucked beside her plate. She looked up “Good morning,” she said.

when she saw me and smiled in a bright and uncomplicated manner that melted my heart.

“Good morning,” I replied with a smile of my own.

She studied my face. “You don’t look snowy anymore.”

“I’m improving,” I said.

Ethan slid a mug across the counter toward me. Steam curled up, carrying the smell of coffee and something sweet.

“I didn’t know how you take it,” he said. “There’s sugar if you want.”

“Black is fine,” I said automatically then hesitated. “Actually. Maybe a little sugar.”

He nodded once and pushed the bowl toward me.

I stirred slowly, listening to the spoon clink.

Outside, something cracked loudly. A tree limb, maybe. The sound echoed too long.

Ethan’s gaze flicked toward the window.

“Roads,” I said. “Are they…?”

“Blocked,” he finished. “Already checked.”

“You went out there,” I said.

“Early.”

Of course he had.

“And my cabin.”

He exhaled through his nose. “I can’t see it from here, but if the power’s out here, it’s out there. That place isn’t insulated well.”

My stomach tightened in response.

“How long,” I asked.

He did not answer right away.

“Could be days,” he said finally after some moments of thinking.

The word settled between us like a weight.

Days. Days with this man and his daughter.

Lily swung her legs harder. “Can Mia stay,” she asked casually like it was already decided.

Ethan’s jaw tightened and he did not look at her.

“We’ll see,” he said.

I smiled at Lily anyway. “I won’t take up too much space.”

She frowned and then had a serious expression on her small face. “You don’t.”

Something warm pressed behind my ribs and I laughed. 

After breakfast, Ethan disappeared outside again, bundled up, moving with purpose as always. Lily followed me around while I washed the mugs, handing me towels that were far too big for her hands.

“You can help me feed the birds,” she said when we were done and tugged at my sleeve.

“Okay,” I said. “How?”

She showed me a jar of seeds and a small wooden feeder by the window. We sprinkled them together, our shoulders almost touching.

When Ethan came back in, snow clinging to his boots, he paused when he saw us.

Something passed through his expression. Surprise. Then something like relief, quickly buried.

“You don’t have to help,” he said to me.

“I know,” I said. “I want to.”

He studied me for a moment longer, then nodded.

The day stretched slowly. The storm did not let up. Snow piled against the windows like it meant to stay.

I folded blankets. Swept the kitchen. Helped Lily color at the table. She told me about her school and her teacher and how Rudy hated broccoli.

Ethan hovered at the edges. Watching. Always watching.

He watched Lily like the world was full of traps only he could see.

He watched me like he was not sure what category I belonged in yet.

By afternoon, the cabin felt smaller, warmer, more lived-in with my presence. That thought scared me and I tried to shake it away. 

I found him in the kitchen later, staring into the open fridge.

“Inventory,” he said as if explaining himself. “Supplies are fine for now. But we’ll need to be careful.”

“I can help ration,” I offered. “I’m good at spreadsheets.”

A corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.

“Of course you are.”

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable exactly. 

“So,” I said, filling it before I could stop myself. “You and Lily live out here alone.”

“Yes.”

“All year.”

“Yes.”

“It’s… quiet.”

“That’s the point.”

I nodded. “She seems happy.”

“She is.”

The way he said it made it feel like a vow.

I hesitated then asked the question I had already answered in my head.

“And her mom.”

The air changed instantly. Ethan’s shoulders went rigid and his hands stopped moving.

Lily looked up from her drawing.

“Mommy’s in heaven,” she said matter-of-factly.

My chest clenched.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” Ethan said sharply.

But I could easily tell that it was not fine.

He turned away just then, busying himself with the fridge again, his back a wall.

I swallowed my guilt.

“Lily,” I said gently when I turned to her. “That picture is beautiful.”

She smiled in a proud way and returned to her crayons.

Ethan did not speak to me again for the next hour.

Dinner was quiet and when night came, the storm still raged. Wind pressed against the cabin like it wanted inside. The fire burned brighter now, fed by thicker logs.

Ethan suddenly cleared his throat.

“You shouldn’t sleep on the couch again,” he said.

I froze in response. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” he said. “You barely slept. And if this goes on for days—”

“I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

He met my gaze fully then. “You’re not.”

The words came out rough,l like they surprised him too.

“There’s a guest room,” he added. “It’s… clean.”

I nodded, heart thudding. “Okay.”

He showed me the room. It was simple and neat. There was a quilt folded at the foot of the bed, a small lamp on the nightstand and a window frosted white with snow.

“It gets cold at night,” he said. “There are extra blankets in the closet.”

“Thank you,” I said.

He paused at the door. “If you need anything...”

“I will let you know,” I said before he could finish. 

He left, closing the door softly behind him.

I lay on the bed fully clothed for a long time, listening to the storm. The walls creaked with the wind blowing against it. 

I couldn't help thinking that this bed was borrowed and that this safety temporary.

That thought followed me into sleep.

Later that night, I woke to a sound that made my chest ache.

A voice.

It was low, soft and completely male.

I sat up, heart racing and then realized it was not of danger.

Rather, it was that of a man singing a song.

I slipped out of bed and cracked the door open, careful not to let it creak.

The hallway was dim. Firelight flickered at the far end. I tiptoed to the next bedroom and saw from the slightly open door that it belonged to Lily. 

Ethan sat on the edge of Lily’s bed, her small sleeping body curled under blankets, Rudy tucked under her chin. His voice filled the room in a cooing and gentle manner. 

I did not recognize the song he was singing. It sounded old and sweet in a way that made my heart ache even more. 

Lily stirred just then. “Daddy,” she murmured.

“I’m here,” he whispered softly as his hand brushed her hair in a slow and careful manner, like it might break if he touched too hard.

“I miss mommy,” Lily said.

The words hit me like a blow.

“I know,” he said, his voice breaking just slightly. “Me too.”

He kept singing. His voice did not waver again but something in his shoulders did.

I pressed my hand to my mouth.

This was not the guarded man at the door. This was someone stripped bare by love and loss.

I backed away quietly, heart pounding.

Back in bed, I stared at the ceiling again, but this time my chest felt too full.

I had seen something I could not unsee.

And I knew, with a clarity that scared me, that I couldn't forget it.