A soft knock on the door broke the silence.
My heart stuttered. I knew who it was before I even moved.
Me: He's here.
Apple: WHAT? WHO? THE PSYCHO? At your CABIN? AT THIS HOUR? G, DON'T OPEN THE DOOR. This is exactly how horror movies start. Beautiful woman alone in remote location, mysterious knock at midnight—NEXT THING YOU KNOW you're running through the woods in your bare feet while something evil chases you. I've seen this. I've seen this TWELVE TIMES on criminal minds, remember!"
Me: It's fine. It's just a conversation.
Apple: JUST A CONVERSATION? HOW WOULD YOU KNOW? At midnight? In a cabin? With a man who has "emotionally unavailable CEO" written all over his expensive face? G, listen to me. Keep Jessica close. Actually, keep Jessica in your HAND. If he tries anything—
Me: I know. Knee in the family jewels.
Apple: AND CALL ME. IMMEDIATELY. One buzz for "I'm fine." Two buzzes for "he's being a scumbag." Three buzzes for "I need a ride and also a lawyer." I don't care if it's 3 AM. I will answer. I will find you. I will bring Jessica's cousins—I have multiple rolling pins, G. I'm PREPARED.
Me: ok I have to go, App.
Apple: I love you too, you reckless, beautiful idiot. Now GO. Answer the door. Be confident. Be devastating. And if he so much as—
I silenced the phone mid-sentence, could practically hear her sputtering through the screen, and set it face down on the table. The cabin was suddenly too quiet, the fire too bright, my heart beating too fast.
I crossed to the door and opened it.
Kaelen stood on the porch, illuminated by the yellow glow of the porch light that carved deep shadows beneath the hollows of his cheeks. He had discarded his sweater and now wore only a white t-shirt that clung to the contours of his chest and shoulders—the physique of a man who fought his demons in private gyms at impossible hours. His casual pants hung loose around his hips, and on his feet were simple flip-flops that looked absurdly out of place in the cold night air.
His dark hair, usually so meticulously styled, was pulled into a half-up man bun, stray strands escaping to frame his face in a way that made him look younger, more approachable—and infinitely more troubled. In one hand he held a bottle of expensive whiskey, its amber contents catching the light, and in the other, two crystal tumblers that clinked softly with the tremor in his grip.
He stood there not as the CEO, not as the king, but as a man preparing to confess something he barely understood to the only person who might believe him.
"Can we talk?" he asked.
The simple question cost him a great deal. I could see it in the tension of his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes, the way he held himself as if expecting rejection.
I stepped back, wordlessly inviting him in.
He entered slowly, his eyes taking in the simple room—the crackling fire, the rumpled blanket on the sofa, the book I had left open on the nightstand. He seemed like an alien in this rustic setting, a sleek, modern predator in a world of soft edges and ancient rhythms.
He poured two fingers of amber liquid into each glass without asking and handed one to me. Our fingers brushed during the exchange, and while there was no violent jolt this time, a warm, resonant hum passed between us—a low-grade current of recognition that was almost more unsettling than the shock had been. He felt it too; I saw it in the slight widening of his eyes, the way his hand hovered a moment too long before pulling away.