Page 10 of Keep Me, Knox
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
The way she says it, firm and sure, reminds me again that she's not some delicate city girl who needs protecting from a little weather. She's spent her life outdoors, in conditions probably worse than whatever this storm's bringing.
"All right," I say. "Put your boots on.”
I watch her lace up her boots with quick, efficient movements, trying not to stare at her bare legs extending from my borrowed hoodie. Outside, the temperature's dropped at least ten degrees since dinner, and the wind's picking up, sending leaves skittering across the yard.
We work together in easy rhythm. She helps me stack wood closer to the house while I check the generator and secure anything that might blow around. She doesn't need instruction. She just sees what needs doing and does it.
"You've done this before," I observe, watching her arrange the logs with practiced efficiency.
"Montana, remember?” she says, smiling.
A particularly strong gust whips through the trees, and she shivers, pulling the hood of the sweatshirt over her head.
"That's enough," I decide. "Let's get inside before the storm hits."
Back in the cabin, she shoves the hood back down and runs her hands through her hair, trying to tame the wind damage. The firelight catches the blonde strands, turning them gold and copper.
She's so fucking beautiful.Something I’ve been keenly aware of since the moment she knocked on my door. But there's something about seeing her here, in my space, helping with my chores, wearing my sweatshirt, that hits different.
Like she couldbelonghere. Withme.
"Wine?" I offer, mostly to distract myself from that dangerous line of thinking.
She raises an eyebrow. "You have wine?"
I smirk. "I suppose mountain men are only supposed to drink moonshine?"
She laughs, kicking off her boots. “I didn’t say that. Wine would be lovely.”
I pour two glasses of a Cabernet I've been saving for no particular reason and hand her one. She curls up on the couch, feet tucked under her, and I settle into the chair across from her like I did earlier.
But the distance feels wrong now. Too much space between us.
"So," she says, swirling the wine in her glass. "What do you do when you're not hosting wayward bear researchers?"
"Read. Work in the forge. Fix things that break." I take a sip, considering. "Honestly? Not much that would sound interesting to most people."
"Try me."
"I'm working on a hunting knife right now. Damascus steel, with a handle I'm carving from elk antler. It's... meditative, I guess. Taking raw steel and fire, folding it hundreds of times until it becomes something both beautiful and functional. Finding the metal's personality, workingwith itinstead of against it."
Her eyes light up. "Can I see it?"
“Now?” I stare up at the ceiling, listening to the drum of the raindrops on the roof.
“I’m not afraid of a little rain.” She’s already pulling her boots back on.
I hesitate. The forge is my private space. Always has been. But something about the genuine interest in her voice makes me nod.
"It's just rough work so far," I warn, leading her through the kitchen to the back door.
The forge is in a separate building behind the cabin, far enough away to contain the heat and noise. We dash through the rain, laughing as we’re pelted with raindrops.
I reach the door, quickly flipping on the overhead lights, illuminating the anvil, the coal forge, racks of hammers and tongs, and on the workbench, the knife.
