Page 4 of Shelter Me, Sawyer
Sawyer moves around the kitchen like he's choreographed this dance a thousand times—pots clanking softly, water running, the sizzle of something hitting a hot pan. The smells that drift toward me are rich and comforting. I don't know what I expected a hermit to eat. Beans from a can, maybe. But whatever he’s making is making my mouth water.
"Hope you're not vegetarian," he says without looking up from whatever he's stirring.
“I’m not,” I assure him.
A few minutes later, he sets two mismatched bowls on a small wooden table near the window. Steam rises from both, carrying the scent of herbs and meat and something that makes my stomach clench with sudden, desperate hunger.
I limp over and sit, still wrapped in the towel, my hair still dripping slightly. I don't even care that I must look like a drowned rat. The stew tastes like heaven. Like the kind of meal that sticks to your ribs and your memory in equal measure.
For a while, we just eat in companionable silence.
The quiet settles over us. Thick with unspoken questions. He doesn't ask what I was doing hiking alone, and I don't ask why aman like him chooses to live up here like some bearded hermit from a cautionary tale.
But eventually, curiosity gets the better of me.
"Do you live out here all the time?" I ask, spoon halfway to my mouth.
He nods. "For the past ten years."
"Ten? Wow." I blink, trying to imagine it. "I don't think I've done anything for ten years straight. Not even floss regularly."
That earns me another almost-smile. Progress.
"Why?" I ask, softer now. "If you don't mind me asking."
He doesn't answer right away. Just stares into his bowl like the meat and potatoes hold the secret to life, the universe, and everything.
"Got tired of the noise," he says finally. "People. Expectations. The world telling me who I was supposed to be."
I nod slowly, understanding more than he probably realizes. "Yeah. I think I get that."
He looks at me then. Really looks. Like he's trying to figure out what kind of noise I've been running from. What expectations drove me up this mountain with a storm on the horizon.
I wish I knew how to explain it. I wasn't trying to be reckless. I just needed space. Silence. A minute to breathe without someone telling me I should be grateful for my life, my job, my apartment that feels more like a pretty prison every day.
And somehow, following a trail that was supposed to lead to a scenic overlook, I ended up here. With him.
The wind howls outside like a living thing. The fire crackles and pops behind us. And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I don't feel so desperately alone.
Three
Sawyer
She'sasleeponmycouch, curled up under the old quilt my grandmother made, her damp curls fanned across the pillow like spilled ink.
Scarlett.
I don't know what kind of woman hikes into the wilderness alone with a storm on the radar and no clear exit strategy—but I know I've never met anyone like her. She talks like words don't cost anything. Smiles like it's a habit she can't break, even when she's scared. Asked a dozen questions over dinner, most of which I answered with grunts or nods. Didn't seem to mind. Hell, she laughed at my non-answers like they were the height of wit.
She’s sunshine and warmth.
And she's here. In my cabin.
And I don't want her to leave.
I add another log to the fire and check the window. The storm's worse than I thought it would be. The wind howls through the trees like something wild and angry, and the rain slams against the metal roof. Thunder shakes the walls every few minutes, rattling the windows in their frames. No chance of the trail clearing until morning at the earliest. No way she's going anywhere tonight.
Good.
