Updated Apr 11, 2026 • ~9 min read
Chapter 4: Day One
Sloane
My first full day in Jackson Torres’s cabin is an exercise in culture shock.
I wake up to pale gray light filtering through the small window, my body aching in places I didn’t know could ache, and my first instinct is to reach for my phone to check the time. Except my phone is dead, and even if it weren’t, there’s no service out here in the middle of nowhere, which means I have no idea what time it is or what day it is or what’s happening in the outside world.
No phone. No WiFi. No connection to civilization whatsoever.
The panic that thought induces is immediate and visceral, tightening my chest and making my breathing go shallow, and I have to close my eyes and count to ten before I can get myself under control.
You’re alive, I tell myself firmly. You could be dead in the woods right now. No phone is a small price to pay for being alive.
It doesn’t help as much as it should.
I sit up slowly, testing my ankle, and wince at the sharp throb of pain that shoots up my leg. It’s definitely sprained, maybe worse, and I can see even through the sock Jackson must have put on me that it’s swollen and probably bruised. Great. So not only am I trapped in a cabin with a grumpy mountain man during a blizzard, I’m also injured and useless.
This just keeps getting better.
The cabin is quiet, and when I look around, I realize Jackson isn’t here. Bear is gone too, which means they must be out doing… whatever it is mountain men and their wolf-dogs do. Hunting, probably, based on the rules he laid out last night with all the warmth and charm of a drill sergeant.
I’m alone.
In a one-room cabin.
With no electricity, no phone, and no idea what I’m supposed to do with myself.
I manage to hobble to my feet, using the wall for support, and take stock of my surroundings in the daylight. The cabin is bigger than I thought—maybe twenty feet by twenty feet—but it’s still just one room. There’s the bed where I slept, which is actually a surprisingly well-made wooden frame with what looks like a handmade mattress. There’s the wood stove in the center, still radiating heat from the fire Jackson must have stoked before he left. There’s a small kitchen area with a counter, a basin, some shelves with supplies, and a cast-iron pot hanging from a hook.
And then there’s… organized chaos.
There are tools hanging on the walls, books stacked in precarious piles on a rough-hewn shelf, what looks like hunting and fishing gear piled in one corner, firewood stacked neatly by the door, and various other items scattered around in a way that probably makes sense to Jackson but looks like a disaster to my Type-A brain.
I hobble over to the kitchen area, looking for water, and find a bucket that’s half-full. There’s also a container of what looks like coffee grounds and a French press, and the sight of it makes me want to weep with gratitude. At least there’s coffee. I can survive anything if there’s coffee.
I’m in the process of trying to figure out how to make coffee without electricity or running water when I realize I need to use the bathroom.
And that’s when I see it.
Through the window, barely visible through the still-falling snow, is a small wooden structure about thirty feet from the cabin.
An outhouse.
An actual outhouse.
I nearly cry.
***
Twenty minutes later, I’m back inside the cabin, having survived the most humiliating bathroom experience of my life, and I’m cold, wet from the snow, and more determined than ever to find something productive to do. I can’t just sit here for two weeks doing nothing. That’s not who I am. I’m a doer, a problem-solver, someone who takes action.
So I make coffee—badly, but I manage it—and then I start cleaning.
It’s obvious that Jackson has a system, but it’s also obvious that his system could use some improvement. The books should be organized by subject or author, not just stacked wherever they fit. The tools should be grouped by function. The kitchen area should have the most frequently used items within easy reach. The firewood should be—
Actually, the firewood is fine. That’s probably the one thing he’s organized perfectly.
I spend the next two hours reorganizing the cabin, working around my injured ankle, and by the time I’m done, I’m exhausted and sweating despite the cold, but the space looks so much better. Everything is neat, categorized, efficient. The books are alphabetized. The tools are grouped. The kitchen area is set up for maximum workflow.
I’m standing back, admiring my work, when the door bursts open and Jackson storms in, covered in snow, carrying what looks like a dead rabbit, and looking like a storm cloud in human form.
“What did you DO?” he roars, and I actually jump, startled by the sheer volume of his voice.
“I cleaned!” I gesture to the cabin, which looks objectively better than it did this morning. “You’re welcome!”
“You—” He stops, his dark eyes scanning the space, and I can see the exact moment he realizes the full extent of what I’ve done. “You reorganized everything.”
“Yes. It was a mess. Now it’s organized.”
“It wasn’t a mess!” He drops the rabbit on the counter with more force than necessary and spins to face me, and there’s something almost feral in his expression. “I knew where everything WAS! I had a system! Everything was exactly where I needed it to be, and now it’s—it’s—”
“Better organized?” I offer, and I know it’s the wrong thing to say even before the words leave my mouth.
“Ruined!” He stalks over to the bookshelf, staring at the alphabetized books like I’ve personally attacked him. “I organized these by how often I read them. The ones I read most were at the front. Now I have to search through the whole damn shelf to find anything!”
“That’s not—that doesn’t make sense. Alphabetical is more efficient—”
“For you!” He whirls to face me again, and I take an instinctive step back. “For YOU it’s more efficient! For me, it’s a nightmare! These are MY things, in MY cabin, organized MY way, and you had no right to touch them!”
“I was trying to help!” My own temper is flaring now, fueled by exhaustion and pain and the fundamental unfairness of being yelled at for trying to make his disaster of a cabin more livable. “I can’t just sit here doing nothing for two weeks! I needed something to do!”
“Then read a book! Stare at the wall! I don’t care! But don’t touch my stuff!” He’s already moving around the cabin, trying to put things back the way they were, and the look of distress on his face is so genuine that I actually feel a pang of guilt.
“I’m sorry,” I say, but it comes out defensive rather than apologetic. “I didn’t know you had a system.”
“Everyone has a system,” he snaps, not looking at me as he moves his tools back to wherever they were before. “Just because it doesn’t make sense to you doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”
“Fine. I get it. I won’t touch your stuff again.”
“Good.”
We stand there in tense silence, the air between us crackling with anger and frustration, and I can feel tears pricking at my eyes, which is ridiculous. I don’t cry. I’m a corporate lawyer. I argue with senior partners and opposing counsel without flinching. I don’t cry because some mountain man yelled at me for trying to help.
Except apparently I do, because the tears are already spilling over, and I swipe at them angrily, turning away so he won’t see.
“I was just trying to help,” I say again, quieter this time. “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t respond, and after a moment I hobble back to the bed and sink down onto it, my ankle throbbing and my pride in shreds.
This is going to be the longest two weeks of my life.
Behind me, I hear Jackson moving around, the soft sounds of him putting his cabin back to rights, and the occasional muttered curse that I’m probably not supposed to hear.
Bear pads over to me and rests his head on my knee, his yellow eyes sympathetic, and I run my fingers through his fur because at least someone in this cabin doesn’t think I’m a complete disaster.
“Your owner is an asshole,” I whisper to the wolf-dog.
From across the cabin, Jackson’s voice is gruff. “I can hear you.”
“Good.”
More silence.
Then: “Coffee’s not bad.”
I look up, surprised, and find him standing by the kitchen area, holding the French press I used earlier. He’s not looking at me, and his jaw is still tight with anger, but there’s something in his voice that might be the closest thing to a peace offering I’m going to get.
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
He grunts, which I’m learning is his primary form of communication, and goes back to reorganizing his tools.
I stay on the bed with Bear, watching the snow fall outside the window, and try not to think about how many more days I have to survive in this cabin with a man who clearly hates having me here.
Fourteen days, probably.
Maybe more, if the weather doesn’t clear.
I’m going to lose my mind long before then.
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