Chapter 4 Mia's Pov

The next morning, the cabin felt like a different place.

Not because the storm stopped. It didn’t. The wind still shoved at the windows. Snow still crawled up the glass like it wanted to cover the world and erase it.

It felt different because I did.

I woke with Ethan’s voice still in my head, low and soft, singing to his daughter in the dark. The sound clung to me like smoke. It followed me down the hall. It sat in my chest while I brushed my teeth with the spare toothbrush Lily had proudly handed me from a drawer.

“Daddy keeps extra,” she’d said like this was normal.

I shook my head at myself because to me, nothing about this was normal.

I stood at the sink, staring at my face in the mirror. My cheeks looked less pale than the first night. My eyes still looked tired but there was something awake in them now. Something that hadn’t been there in Boston.

Something warm and dangerous at the same time. 

I stepped into the hallway and nearly collided with Ethan.

He wore a flannel shirt and jeans today. His hair stuck up slightly, like he had run a hand through it and stopped caring halfway. He smelled like coffee and soap, and my brain, traitor that it was, filed it away like it mattered.

He stopped instantly when he saw me. 

We stood too close and for a second, neither of us spoke.

His gaze flicked to my mouth, then back to my eyes so fast I almost convinced myself I imagined it.

“Morning,” I said because the silence felt too thick.

“Morning,” he replied.

His voice sounded rougher than yesterday. It was like sleep hadn’t been kind to him. 

I stepped aside quickly. “Sorry.”

He moved past me, then paused.

“You sleep,” he asked again, like he kept checking because he didn’t trust the answer.

“Yes,” I lied.

He looked at me for a long beat, and I felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with my pajamas.

“Good,” he said finally and kept walking.

I exhaled loudly. 

In the kitchen, Lily sat at the table already, hair messy, Rudy propped beside her plate like he was a guest.

She grinned when she saw me. “Mia, I made you a seat.”

She pointed to the chair beside her. It had a little folded napkin on it like a tiny version of a restaurant.

My throat tightened with so much emotions in response.

“That’s very fancy,” I said sliding into the chair. “Do you take reservations.”

She giggled. “Yes, you have to pay with hugs.”

I laughed and it came out too soft, too full.

“Deal,” I said.

Ethan stood at the stove, flipping something in a pan. The smell of butter and eggs filled the room. A small radio sat on the counter, silent, its display blank without power. A lantern rested beside it like a substitute sun.

“Any news,” I asked, glancing at the windows. Snow piled against the lower panes.

Ethan shook his head. “Still nothing.”

“Still no power,” I said.

“Generator is for emergencies,” he replied. “I don’t run it unless I have to.”

Of course he had a generator. Of course he had rules for it. 

I could already see he was that kind of man. 

As I watched him plate the eggs, his movements were efficient and practiced. The way he carried himself made it clear he was used to doing this. He set a plate in front of Lily first, then mine, then his.

Lily clasped her hands. “Thank you, Daddy.”

Ethan nodded once.

She glanced at me. “You say it too.”

“Oh,” I said smiling. “Thank you, Ethan.”

His gaze flicked up to me. The way my name sounded in his space made me feel like I had stepped into something I shouldn’t.

“Eat,” he said finally and looked away. 

After breakfast, the day unfolded like a slow loop.

Ethan checked the doors and windows. He moved around the cabin like he was patrolling it. Not because he thought the storm would break in but because control looked like his religion.

Lily followed me everywhere.

She tugged my sleeve while I washed dishes. She perched on a stool while I wiped counters. She sat cross-legged on the rug with crayons, drawing little stick families and reindeer with antlers too big for their heads.

“Do you have kids,” she asked suddenly.

The question hit fast.

I paused with a dish towel in my hands. “No.”

“Why,” she asked in a blunt manner. 

I laughed awkwardly. “Because… I haven’t yet.”

She narrowed her eyes like she was studying me. “Do you have a husband.”

“No.”

“Do you have a boyfriend.”

“No.”

She blinked slowly. “So you’re just Mia.”

I swallowed. “Yeah,” I said quietly. “Just Mia.”

Lily nodded, satisfied, as if that was the best answer.

Ethan walked in from the porch then, snow dusting his shoulders. He looked between us.

“What did you ask her,” he asked Lily.

Lily shrugged. “If she’s just Mia.”

Ethan’s eyes flicked to me. Something unreadable passed through them.

“She’s just Mia,” he repeated almost like he was tasting the words.

Heat climbed my neck. “Apparently.”

Lily grinned and went back to coloring.

Ethan moved to the woodpile and started stacking logs by the hearth. I watched him without meaning to.

His hands looked rough, knuckles scraped, palms calloused. A man who worked with his body. A man who carried weight and didn’t complain.

This domestic scene felt wrong in the best way. It was like stepping into someone else’s life and realizing you fit there too easily.

That thought scared me so much I shoved it down hard.

Around midday, Ethan went quiet again.

It was not the normal quiet. Not his usual guarded stillness.

This was a heavier quiet like a door had closed inside him.

I noticed it when Lily asked him to play, and he said, “Not now,” in a tone that made her shrink slightly. Then he immediately softened and added, “Later, okay?”

She nodded but her eyes stayed on him longer than a five-year-old’s should.

I watched them with something tight in my chest.

Later, I found myself doing small things without thinking. Cutting apples for Lily. Refilling Ethan’s mug when he forgot. Straightening the throw pillow on the couch.

It was a rhythm.

And the rhythm felt like a trap.

In the afternoon, while Lily napped on the couch with Rudy tucked under her arm, Ethan went into the kitchen and opened a cabinet. He pulled out a small box, then froze like he hadn’t meant for anyone to see.

He looked up and found me watching from the hallway.

For a second, I saw panic.

Then the wall came back.

He slid the box deeper into the cabinet and shut the door.

“What,” I asked softly even though I didn’t know why I asked at all.

“Nothing,” he said. The word hit with finality.

I nodded once, pretending it didn’t matter. Even though it did. Because I could tell that the box wasn’t nothing.

It was small, worn, taped at the corners like it had been opened too many times. It was the kind of box that held grief. The kind of box that held a life he didn’t want to talk about.

I wanted to ask more questions about it. 

But I didn’t.

I knew what it felt like to have someone pry. To have someone demand answers you weren’t ready to hand over.

So I let it go.

At least I told myself I did.

By evening, the storm eased a little. Not enough to leave. But enough to make the silence between gusts feel louder.

Ethan built up the fire. Lily woke and insisted we make hot chocolate.

“We can’t,” Ethan said immediately. “We need to conserve milk.”

Lily’s mouth fell open. “But hot chocolate is for snow days.”

Ethan’s jaw flexed. “Lily.”

Her eyes filled instantly. She looked down at Rudy like he could fix it.

My chest clenched.

I stepped closer. “We can make it with water,” I said quickly. “It’s not as creamy but it still tastes good.”

Ethan looked at me sharply like he didn’t like anyone stepping into his decisions. Like he didn’t like being challenged.

Then he looked at Lily’s face and something in him shifted.

“Fine,” he said and the word sounded like surrender. “One cup.”

Lily’s grin returned so fast it made my throat ache.

“Three,” I said before I could stop myself. “One for you and I too.”

Ethan’s gaze held mine.

“You don’t know my rules,” he said quietly.

“No,” I admitted. “But I know your kid wanted hot chocolate. And I know you wanted to say yes.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Do you?”

I felt my cheeks heat. “I do.”

He didn’t answer but he didn’t argue with me either.

We made hot chocolate with water and a little extra cocoa. Lily declared it “still magic.” She insisted we sit by the fire while we drank.

Ethan sat in the armchair again. Lily curled up on the rug, back against the couch, Rudy in her lap. I sat on the couch, legs tucked under me, mug warming my palms.

The cabin glowed with firelight, shadows moved across the ceiling beams and the windows reflected orange flickers, making it feel like we lived inside a lantern.

Lily yawned dramatically. “Story,” she demanded.

Ethan’s shoulders tightened. “I’m not good at stories.”

“You are, daddy,” she insisted. “The reindeer one.”

He sighed just then like the weight of the world was small enough to be carried in a bedtime story.

He started telling it soon with a low, steady voice. Lily listened, eyes drooping, but she was still smiling.

I watched Ethan as he spoke.

His face looked different in this light. Softer. More human. Less like a man built out of walls.

At some point, Lily slid closer to the couch, her head relaxing against my leg. She didn’t ask. She just did it.

I froze at first in response. Then my hand moved, gentle, resting on her hair.

She hummed softly and closed her eyes.

Ethan’s voice faltered for a second.

He glanced up.

His eyes landed on my hand in Lily’s hair.

Something sharp and vulnerable moved across his face.

Then he looked away quickly and kept talking.

The story ended with Lily asleep, her breathing coming out in a steady manner. 

Ethan stood and lifted her carefully into his arms. She murmured, half-awake, “Mia.”

My heart did something stupid inside my chest even as Ethan paused.

“What?” I asked softly as I looked at the outline of his face. 

“She likes you,” he said.

It wasn’t a compliment. It wasn’t a warning either. It felt like a combination of both.

I swallowed. “I like her too.”

His eyes held mine. “Don’t,” he said quietly.

The word stung me. 

“Don’t what?” I asked even though I already had an idea of what he was talking about.

He exhaled and when he spoke, his jaw was tight. “Get attached.”

My chest tightened. “Ethan, she’s a child.”

“And she’s mine,” he said with his voice sharpened with something I couldn't recognise. “And I don’t… I don’t bring people into her life.”

“I wasn't brought in just like that,” I snapped before I could stop myself. The heat in my voice surprised me. “I knocked on your door because I was freezing.”

Ethan’s eyes flashed. “And I let you in.”

“Yes,” I said. “You did. And I’m grateful but you can’t act like I’m plotting some emotional invasion.”

He stared at me for a beat, breathing hard, Lily asleep in his arms.

Then he turned away and carried Lily down the hall without another word.

I sat frozen on the couch, mug cooling in my hands.

My heart hammered, half anger, half something else I didn’t want to name.

The fire popped loudly, startling me.

I stared into it like it could answer questions I didn’t know how to ask.

Later, after the cabin went quiet again, Ethan returned.

He moved around the room, picking up Lily’s crayons, stacking them into a neat pile, straightening the blanket she’d dragged to the floor.

He didn’t look at me.

I stood slowly.

“I’m going to bed,” I said.

He nodded once, eyes still on the crayons.

I took a step toward the hallway, then stopped.

“Ethan,” I said softly.

He froze.

I swallowed hard. “I’m not here to hurt either of you.”

His shoulders rose and fell with a slow breath.

“I know,” he said but his voice sounded like he was trying to believe it.

I nodded and walked away before my emotions spilled in front of him.

In the guest room, I shut the door and relaxed my body against it, eyes stinging as I did so. 

I had come to Vermont to breathe.

Instead, I was trapped inside a cabin with a man who looked at me like danger and warmth at the same time and a little girl whose trust already felt like something sacred.

I slid down the door to the floor, hugging my knees.

And in my head, I replayed the way Ethan’s eyes had flicked to my hand on Lily’s hair.

The way his voice had sharpened when he said, ‘She’s mine’.

The way my body had reacted to his nearness even when my heart was bruised.

I lay in bed later, staring at the ceiling, listening to the storm soften and return in waves.

The distance between us wasn’t safe anymore, I could tell. It was fragile.

And one thing I knew was that fragile things broke.

But then the breaking didn’t happen that night.

It happened the next evening.

Lily fell asleep early, worn out from a day of puzzles and stories and running circles around the kitchen. Ethan carried her as always down the hall with that careful strength that made my chest ache, then returned to the living room without speaking.

The cabin felt too quiet once she was gone. It was like even the air missed her.

Ethan added another log to the fire. Sparks lifted and died. The flames leaned toward him, then settled.

I sat on the couch, knees tucked under me, my mug empty now, hands still wrapped around it like it could keep me steady.

Ethan sat on the rug near the hearth, close enough to feed the fire, far enough to keep a line between us. He stared into the flames like they were an answer he couldn’t reach.

“You okay?” I asked.

He didn’t look at me. “I’m fine.”

The words sounded automatic like it was a shield.

I nodded slowly. “You don’t have to be.”

That made him glance up.The firelight caught his eyes. Blue, darkened by the shadows. Guarded but not blank.

“What do you want?” he asked quietly.

The question hit me harder than it should have.

I swallowed hard and dared to say what I had been thinking of since the day before. “I want you to stop treating me like a threat.”

His jaw tightened. “You don’t know me.”

“I know,” I said. “But I’m here and you let me in. Don't forget that.”

He held my gaze and something in the room shifted. The air felt thicker, warmer like the fire had moved closer.

Ethan reached for the poker and nudged the logs. The movement made the flames flare.

I moved my body forward without thinking, reaching for the blanket on the floor beside him. It had slipped down earlier when Lily dragged it.

Our hands met at the same time as he nudged the logs again.

My fingers brushed his.

It was light. Barely anything.

Yet it felt like everything.

Heat shot through me so fast it stole my breath. It was not the warm, gentle heat of the fire. Rather, it was a sharp, electric rush that made my stomach drop and my skin tighten.

Ethan went still and his hand froze under mine.

For some seconds, neither of us moved. The only sound was the fire crackling, the wind brushing the windows like it was listening.

Ethan’s eyes lifted slowly to my face.

Desire flashed there in his blue eyes, fast and fierce.

Then fear followed right behind it.

He pulled his hand away like the touch hurt.

The movement was quick, almost rough. Like he had to break the connection before it became something he couldn’t control.

My fingers stayed suspended in the air for a second and felt empty and tingling sort of. 

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t.

I watched him swallow hard, his throat working like he was forcing something down. His breathing turned shallow.

He looked away from me and stared at the fire again, shoulders tense, hands clenched into fists on his knees.

But I had seen it.

The way his blue eyes had darkened. The way his body had reacted before his mind yanked him back.

The way he wanted me.

The way he was terrified of wanting me.

The silence between us stretched in a tight and loaded manner. 

I slowly picked up the blanket and folded it into my lap, more for something to do than comfort.

Ethan didn’t still move. Didn’t speak either. 

The fire kept burning.

Outside, the storm kept circling.

And inside, something dangerous stayed alive between us, bright and hungry, even though he pretended it didn’t exist.

I went to bed later with my heart racing, my hand still tingling like it remembered him. Like it would always remember him. 

And in the dark, I realized the truth that scared me most.

Ethan wasn’t the only one afraid.

I was too.