Updated Apr 11, 2026 • ~7 min read
Chapter 2: Warm
Sloane
I wake up warm.
That’s the first thing that registers through the haze of sleep and confusion—warmth, genuine warmth, the kind that seeps into my bones and makes my muscles unclench for the first time in what feels like forever. The second thing I register is softness: I’m lying on something soft, wrapped in what feels like blankets and furs, so many layers that I’m cocooned in them, and the weight is both comforting and slightly claustrophobic.
The third thing I register is the crackling sound of a fire, and that’s when my eyes fly open.
I’m in a cabin.
Not a modern cabin with electricity and running water and WiFi, but an actual rustic, one-room cabin that looks like it was built by hand from logs and determination. The walls are rough-hewn wood, the floor is wide planks that have been worn smooth by years of use, and in the center of the space is a cast-iron wood stove that’s radiating heat in waves, the source of the warmth that’s currently saving my life.
There’s a small window on one wall, and through it I can see nothing but darkness and swirling white—snow, I realize with a jolt of panic. It’s snowing.
“Where am I?” The words come out as a croak, my throat raw and scratchy, and that’s when I notice him.
The mountain man from the forest is sitting in a wooden chair near the stove, tending the fire with a long poker, his movements economical and practiced. In the firelight, I can see him more clearly than I could in the dying twilight: he’s probably in his mid-thirties, with dark hair that’s a bit too long and dark eyes that flick toward me with an expression I can’t quite read. His face is all sharp angles—strong jaw covered in scruff, high cheekbones, a nose that looks like it’s been broken at least once—and there’s something about the way he holds himself that speaks of coiled strength and complete self-sufficiency.
He’s also, objectively speaking, the most attractive man I’ve ever seen in person, which is a deeply inappropriate thing to notice given that I’m currently wrapped in furs in a strange man’s cabin in the middle of nowhere.
“My cabin,” he says, his voice still carrying that rough quality, like gravel mixed with honey. “Fifteen miles from where I found you.”
“Fifteen miles?” I try to sit up, but my body protests immediately—my ankle throbs, my muscles ache, and my head swims with dizziness. “I need to get back. There are people—they’ll be looking for me—”
“No one’s looking for you in this weather.” He nods toward the window, where the snow is falling harder now, thick flakes that obliterate everything beyond a few feet. “Blizzard came in faster than expected. You’re stuck here.”
The panic that I barely managed to keep at bay in the forest comes roaring back, flooding my system with adrenaline that makes my heart pound. “Stuck? For how long?”
“Week.” He shrugs, like he’s discussing the weather rather than my complete and total imprisonment in a one-room cabin with a stranger. “Maybe two.”
“Two weeks?” My voice comes out as a strangled squeak, and I definitely try to sit up this time, fighting through the dizziness and the pain. “I can’t be stuck here for two weeks! I have work! I have court cases! I have a partnership review next month! I have—”
“You have hypothermia,” he interrupts, his tone flat and unimpressed. “Or you did. You’re warming up now, but another hour out there and you’d be dead. So you can stay here and be alive, or you can try to leave and die in the blizzard. Choose.”
The bluntness of his words hits me like a slap, and for a moment I can only stare at him, my Type-A brain trying desperately to find a solution, a loophole, a way to negotiate myself out of this situation. But there’s nothing. The snow is falling, the temperature is plummeting, and I’m fifteen miles from civilization with a twisted ankle and no phone.
I’m trapped.
Completely and utterly trapped.
With a stranger.
“This can’t be happening,” I say, more to myself than to him, my hands coming up to cover my face as the reality of the situation crashes over me. “This is insane. This is actually insane.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you go hiking alone in October without proper gear or a GPS beacon.” There’s no sympathy in his voice, just a kind of weary exasperation, like he’s dealt with stupid city people before and I’m just the latest in a long line of disasters waiting to happen. “You’re lucky Bear found your scent.”
“Bear?” I lower my hands just in time to see the massive creature from the forest padding over to me, and I realize with a start that it’s not actually a bear—it’s a dog. Sort of. It’s enormous and wolf-like, with thick gray-and-white fur and those same yellow eyes that stared at me in the forest, and when it nudges my hand with its massive head, I can feel the strength in its neck muscles.
“Wolf-dog hybrid,” the man says, like this is a perfectly normal thing to have as a pet. “He’s the one who tracked you. I was heading back from checking my traps when he went off-trail. Found you half-frozen under that tree.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, looking down at Bear, who’s now resting his head on the edge of the bed—or cot, or whatever I’m lying on—with an expression that somehow manages to look both proud and concerned. “You saved my life.”
“We both did.” The man stands, and I’m reminded again of just how big he is—easily over six feet, broad-shouldered and solid in a way that comes from actual physical labor rather than a gym membership. “You should rest. Your body needs time to recover.”
“Wait.” I struggle to sit up again, ignoring the protests from my various injuries. “I don’t even know your name.”
He pauses, his back to me as he moves toward what looks like a small kitchen area in the corner of the cabin. “Jackson. Jackson Torres. Most people call me Jacks.”
“I’m Sloane. Sloane Whitmore.”
“I know. Checked your driver’s license.” He glances back at me, and there might be the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes. “New York City. Should’ve guessed.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means you’re a long way from home, city girl.” He turns back to whatever he’s doing, dismissing me as thoroughly as if I’d ceased to exist. “Get some rest. We’ll figure out the details tomorrow.”
I want to argue. I want to demand answers, demand a phone or a radio or some way to contact the outside world, demand that he explain exactly how I’m supposed to survive two weeks in a one-room cabin with a strange man and his wolf-dog in the middle of a blizzard.
But my body has other ideas.
The warmth and the softness and the sheer exhaustion of the last twelve hours are pulling me back down into sleep, and despite my brain’s screaming protests, my eyelids are already getting heavy.
The last thing I see before I drift off is Jackson Torres standing by the stove, silhouetted against the firelight, and Bear settling down on the floor beside my bed like a guardian.
I’m trapped in a cabin with a mountain man and a wolf-dog during a blizzard.
My partnership review is in four weeks.
Marcus is probably laughing his ass off somewhere.
And I’m too tired to care about any of it.
Tomorrow, I tell myself as sleep claims me. Tomorrow I’ll figure out how to fix this disaster.
Tomorrow.
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