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But the charged moment shatters as Jack clears his throat and steps back. "You should get some rest."
He turns away before I can protest. All I’ve done all day is rest.
I release a shaky exhale, my body humming and confused.
I flee to the bedroom, thrown by the pull I feel towards this mysterious, guarded man.
As I burrow under the covers, I can still feel the imprint of his strong hands, the magnetic attraction between us. My mind races with unanswered questions, but one thing is alarmingly clear—my rescuer affects me in ways I don't understand.
And I crave more.
"Watch your footing on these rocks." Jack's deep voice carries over the rushing of the nearby stream as he guides me across the slippery stepping stones. His large, calloused hand engulfs mine, warm and strong. I grip it tightly, my heart pounding as I focus on not losing my balance.
I woke up this morning to Jack announcing that it would be good for me to get out of the house, and I couldn’t agree more.
Safely across, he releases my hand and I immediately miss his touch.
Get a grip, Olivia. So what if he's the most ruggedly handsome man you've ever laid eyes on. You barely know him.
"I'll show you how to collect kindling for the fire." Jack sets down the fishing gear and crouches to gather an armful of small dry twigs and branches scattered on the forest floor. I watch the muscles ripple beneath his flannel shirt, imagining what his bare skin would feel like under my fingertips...
I shake my head, dispelling the dangerous thought. "Like this?" I ask, bending to pick up some sticks.
"Yep, just make sure they're dry. Damp wood won't catch."
As we work side by side, the silence stretches between us, but it's not uncomfortable. There's an easiness to being in his presence, even though I hardly know anything about him.
"Jack?" I venture after a while. "Can I ask you something personal?"
He pauses, his blue eyes searching mine before he nods once. "Go ahead."
I wet my lips, wondering if I'm overstepping. "What made you decide to live out here all alone? In the mountains, away from everything?"
Jack is quiet for a long moment. Then he sighs heavily, his gaze distant. "I needed to get away after my parents died," he says gruffly. "The memories, the pitying looks, all the reminders...it was too much. Out here, things are simpler. Quieter."
My throat tightens with sympathy. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have pried."
"It's alright. It was a long time ago." But I can see the old grief still lingers in the taut lines of his face.
Impulsively, I reach out to squeeze his arm. He glances down at my hand in surprise.
Electricity zings through me at the contact and I quickly let go, my cheeks heating.
"We should head back," Jack says, clearing his throat. "Storm clouds are rolling in."
As we trek through the dense trees back toward the cabin, I find myself intensely aware of his solid presence at my back, and I know with startling clarity that something has shifted between us.
Something that both terrifies and thrills me.
Back at the cabin, the tension between us is palpable, the very air charged with unspoken desire. Jack builds a fire in the hearth as I prepare our simple dinner, hyper-conscious of every accidental brush of hands, every heated glance.
We eat in charged silence, the crackling of the flames and patter of rain against the roof the only sounds. I feel his gaze on me like a physical caress, and it takes all my willpower not to squirm in my seat.
After dinner, the space between us feels smaller, almost suffocating with intensity. Jack clears the dishes without a word, his movements deliberate, controlled. I watch him, fascinated by the play of muscles under his shirt as he bends to stoke the fire. The way he commands the small cabin space, it makes me wonder if he approaches everything in life with the same meticulousness.
I hear a clap of thunder outside, a mirror to the storm brewing within me. My heartbeat is a frantic drum in my ears as he approaches, the heat from his body mingling with the warmth from the fire.
He stands close, too close, and my breath catches in my throat as his eyes search mine, dark and intense. "Olivia," he murmurs, his voice low and rough. There's a question in his gaze, a silent plea for something I'm not sure I can name.
