He finally slowed down as they approached a clearing, and she saw a cabin—no, more like a fortress—nestled among the trees. It was sleek, modern, and seemed out of place in the wilderness. Security cameras were mounted around, and steel doors sealed the entrance. It was the kind of place built for someone who didn't want to be found.
He paused at the weathered wooden steps and turned to look at her once more, his expression hardening as he finally spoke. "You need food, rest, and a clean bandage. That's all. But don't get too comfortable."
A frown tugged at her lips as she replied, "You have an attitude problem, don't you?"
To her surprise, he smirked slightly, offering the first hint of warmth she had seen in him. "I live alone for a reason. Strangers tend to remind me of the things I prefer to forget."
Arms crossed defiantly over her chest, she challenged, "You're a terrible host."
He raised an eyebrow, his tone clipped. "I'm not your host. I'm simply your last option."
With that, he turned and disappeared inside, leaving the door ajar just enough for her to weigh her choices. Stay outside in the encroaching darkness and risk succumbing to the elements, or step inside the dimly lit cabin and face the most arrogant man she had ever encountered in this desolate forest.
For a moment, she hesitated, staring at the slightly open door as if it might snap shut at any moment and bite her. The cold night air clung to her skin, urging her to make a decision.
Everything inside her screamed Don't go in.
Not because of the danger, but because of the man behind that door.
She didn't trust him.
Not because he'd done anything wrong, but because she didn't understand him. He was unpredictable. Sharp. Silent in all the wrong ways. And she was too raw, too shaken, to handle that kind of energy right now.
So she didn't move.
She crossed her arms and sat on the wooden step outside, her knees pulled close. The cool breeze kissed her skin, brushing against the dried sweat and the sting of the small cuts on her legs. She watched the forest, half-expecting the men to return, but more afraid of what awaited her behind the steel-lined walls of the cabin.
Ten minutes passed.
Then the door creaked.
She stiffened.
He stepped out, holding a black box. Wordlessly, he approached her and extended it, saying, "Bandage yourself," as if he were offering her a pen rather than something that might save her from infection.
She took it slowly, her fingers brushing against his for a split second, cold, rough, steady.
"Thanks," she murmured.
He didn't respond; he just leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms and watching her as if waiting to see how badly she would mess this up.
Which she did.
She opened the box and took out a disinfectant wipe. Her hand trembled as she tried to clean the gash on her calf. The sting made her wince, but worse was the silence—how he watched her. It felt like he was reading everything she wasn't saying.
She fumbled for the bandage, unrolling it as she attempted to wrap it around her leg with one hand while holding the gauze in place with the other. It slipped, and her fingers tangled. She cursed under her breath.
She had never done this before—not even once. She wasn't weak; she was just unused to needing anyone. Still, she didn't ask for help. She couldn't.
She could feel him staring. For some reason, that made her hands even clumsier.
"Is this… a joke?" he finally said, his voice laced with the same dry arrogance he wore like armor.
Her head snapped up. "What?"
"You look like you're trying to wrap a sandwich, not treat a wound."
She flushed, heat blooming across her cheeks. "I didn't ask for your opinion."
"No," he replied, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward her slowly, "but I'm giving it anyway."
He knelt in front of her, and she felt herself freeze up. Her heart raced—thud, thud, thud. She'd never let anyone get this close before; she didn't have a boyfriend and hadn't even shared a kiss with anyone. He was almost too close for comfort. It was so quiet here. Everything else felt like it was happening around him. She wanted to back away, but she didn't. His hands moved toward the bandage—firm but not rough, like he wasn't really asking for permission. When his fingers brushed against her calf, she felt as stiff as a statue.
"You're bleeding," he said flatly. "Stop acting like I'm the threat."
"I'm not," she whispered, but her voice betrayed her. She was scared. Not of him hurting her, just… scared of being seen.
He didn't say a word. She just took the gauze and wrapped it up neatly. It wasn't gentle, but it wasn't rough either. It was the kind of care that came from needing to get it done, not from any warmth.
"I could've handled this myself," she muttered.
He glanced up, his eyes hard to read. "Could you?"
She opened her mouth to argue, but the truth hit her hard.
He finished tying the last bit of the bandage and stood up. "Next time, don't fool yourself just to seem tough."
Then he turned and went back inside.
She was left sitting there, hurt, bandaged, and feeling more exposed than she had in ages.
For a bit, she just stayed there, unsure what hurt more—her pride or the wound.
The sun sank lower behind the trees, and shadows stretched across the ground. Cold started creeping in, biting at her skin. Every little crack of a branch made her tense up.
Then she heard the cabin door creak open again.
He walked out, now wearing a heavy utility jacket and strapping a knife to his side. The rifle was already slung across his back, blending in with the dark of dusk.
"I'm going hunting," he said straightforwardly.
She blinked, surprised. "Wait, what?"
He stopped on the steps and raised an eyebrow, like she'd just asked if the sky was blue. "What? You're really gonna sleep without eating? Because I'm not. I want to eat. If you want to come along, cool. If not…" He shrugged. "That's fine too."