Page 5 of My Obsessive Mountain Man

Violet opens the box with trembling fingers, revealing dozens of drawings—landscapes, still lifes, portraits—spanning what must be years of her development as an artist.

"I thought these were lost," she says, her voice thick with emotion. "I didn't know she kept them."

"She treasured them," I say simply. "She treasured you."

A single tear slips down Violet's cheek before she can catch it. The professional mask is cracking, revealing the woman beneath—the one who remembers this place, who belongs here more than she knows.

"I'm sorry," she says, brushing the tear away quickly. "It's been a long day. The storm, this place..."

"Me?" I suggest, only half-joking.

Her eyes meet mine, and in the firelight, I see something shift in them—wariness giving way to something warmer, more curious.

"Yes," she admits quietly. "You too. You're..." She searches for words. "Not what I expected to find here."

"What did you expect to find?" I ask, still kneeling beside her, close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume—something floral and clean.

"An empty cabin," she says. "Dusty furniture. Faded memories." Her gaze travels over my face, lingering. "Not someone who seems to know me better than I know myself."

"I don't know you," I correct her gently. "I know about you. It's not the same thing."

"And yet you've been waiting for me," she says. It's not a question.

I don't deny it. There's no point in pretending this is normal, that my dedication to this place—to her—is simply neighborly kindness.

"Yes," I admit. "I have."

The fire pops and shifts, sending sparks up the chimney. In the golden light, Violet looks like she belongs here, surrounded by the memories her grandmother preserved, wrapped in my shirt, her defenses lowering by the minute.

"Why?" she asks, the single word heavy with genuine confusion.

I could give her the simple answer—that I promised Martha.

"Because some things are meant to be protected," I say instead. "Some connections don't end just because someone's gone."

Violet's gaze drops to my mouth for a fleeting second before returning to my eyes. The air between us thickens, charged with something neither of us is ready to name.

"It's getting late," she says finally, carefully returning the sketches to their box. "I should probably turn in."

I nod, standing and offering my hand to help her up. She takes it, her fingers small and cool against my palm. When she rises, we're standing closer than necessary, her face tilted up to mine, my shirt still draped around her shoulders.

"I'll be on the couch if you need anything," I tell her, reluctantly releasing her hand. "Bathroom's stocked with everything you might need. Extra blankets in the chest at the foot of the bed."

"You've thought of everything," she says, a question in her tone.

"That's my job," I answer simply. What I don't say is that I've thought of her, specifically, in every detail—imagined what would make her comfortable, what would make her feel at home.

"Goodnight, Paul," she says softly, gathering the precious box of sketches to take with her.

"Goodnight, Violet."

I watch her walk down the hallway to the bedroom, my shirt still around her shoulders, her silhouette outlined by the firelight. When she closes the door behind her, I return to the fire, adding another log to keep the cabin warm through the night.

She may have come here to sell this place, to shed her past and return to Chicago. But now that she's here, now that I've seen the way she looks at her grandmother's treasures, the way she fits so perfectly in this space I've kept for her—I know the truth.

Violet Carson belongs here. With her memories. With this cabin.

With me.

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