Page 12 of Challenged By the Mountain Man

"You don't owe me anything," he says, and there's something almost gentle in the way he says it, like he's trying to make me understand something I keep missing.

"I know."

"Then why are you here?"

It's a fair question. I wish I had a good answer.

"I don't know," I admit, and it feels like more honesty than I've given anyone in weeks.

He watches me for a moment, those ice-blue eyes steady and unreadable, like he's trying to figure out what to do with me. Then he picks up his shirt and pulls it on, covering the scars, the muscles, the evidence of whatever the hell happened to him to leave him looking like that. It feels like a loss somehow, watching all of that disappear under worn flannel.

"You settling in okay?" he asks, his voice gruff but not unkind.

"Define okay."

"The generator's working."

"Yeah. It's working."

"Fire staying lit?"

"Barely."

"You're using dry wood?" There's something pointed in the question, like he already knows the answer.

"I'm using the wood that was on the porch."

He nods slowly, like that confirms something he suspected. "That wood's been sitting out too long. It'll burn, but not well. You need seasoned wood if you want actual heat."

"Where am I supposed to get that?"

He jerks his head toward the pile he's been working on. "I'll bring some down."

"You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to." He cuts me off, not unkindly, and there's a firmness in his tone that makes it clear this isn't up for debate. "But unless you want to spend the next two weeks freezing your ass off, you'll take it."

I cross my arms, feeling the need to push back, to not accept help without understanding the terms. "This is still a loan, right?"

"Yeah."

"What do I owe you for the wood?"

He picks up the axe again, testing the weight of it in his hand, and for a moment I think he's going to ignore the question.

"Nothing," he says finally, like this should be obvious, “Just don’t die.”

"Griffin…"

"Hannah." He says my name like it's a full sentence, and the sound of it in his rough voice does something strange to my pulse. "You don't owe me anything. Not for the generator, not for the wood, not for showing you how to keep from blowing yourself up. Got it?"

I want to argue. I want to demand a price, a terms sheet, something concrete I can point to and say *this is what it costs.* But he's looking at me with those beautiful eyes, and I can tell he's not going to budge.

"Fine," I say, the word coming out more reluctant than I intend.

"Good." He turns back to the woodpile, clearly dismissing me, and I know I should leave. I've said what I came to say, thanked him for the help I didn't ask for but apparently needed. There's no reason to stay.

But I don't move. Instead, I hear myself ask, "Can I help?"