Page 89 of Grumpy on the Mountain
She turns her phone toward me, scrolling through a feed that makes my stomach clench.
There's photo after photo of our life together. The breakfast spread I made her first day. Close up of my cabin interior, the parts she adores the most.
She scrolls some more and there are pictures of me working on the treehouse, though at least you can't see my face.
But there's more.
The view from our bedroom window. The fresh snow. The view from the lookout.
It's the past three weeks of our life, documented and broadcast to strangers.
"Jesus, Molly. How many people are seeing this?"
"It's just pretty pictures, Beau. People love mountain life content." She's scrolling faster now, showing me scenic shots, food photos.
Fuck me. Maybe I should never have bought her that phone?
"See? Nothing personal."
"That's our kitchen," I point out. "Our bedroom view. That's me building this treehouse."
"But you can't see the address or anything identifying—"
"That's not the point." My voice comes out harsh, too harsh, and she flinches. "Look, I'm sorry. But there are a lot of freaks out there, Molly. People who see a beautiful woman living her perfect life and decide they want a piece of it. Or a piece ofher."
Molly's eyes jerk in a snappy gesture to Maisie, who's too occupied in her treehouse to be bothered by the rising tensions beneath her.
"You're being paranoid."
"Am I?" I gesture to her phone. "How many of these people do you actually know?"
"Well... none of them, technically. Because they're justfollowers. It's not like they're dangerous." She pauses, her confidence maybe wavering slightly. "Although there was that one weird comment I deleted and blocked..."
My blood goes cold. "What kind of comment?"
"Nothing major! Just someone asking exactly where I lived. Where the scenery shots were taken from. I blocked them immediately."
"Fuck," I groan and drag a hand down my face.
Operational security compromised.The thought hits me like an old military habit.Location potentially identified. Pattern of life established.
"When was this?"
"A few days ago. Beau, you're scaring me. It's just social media." She steps closer to me and clings to my shirt. "Please, I don't want to fight. I'll stop posting if that's what you want."
I force myself to take a breath, to dial back the intensity before I completely ruin this perfect day.
She's right—I'm probably being paranoid.
This is civilian life, not a war zone. Normal people take photos. Normal people share their lives online.
But the soldier in me doesn't give a shit about normal. The soldier in me is living a life of constantly calculating sight lines and exit strategies, and now I'm also fucking wondering who else knows exactly where Molly Jennings sleeps every night.
"You're right," I lie, pulling her closer. "And you shouldn't stop doing something you love just because it makes me feel uncomfortable. I'm just not used to having my private life on display."
"I can stop posting pictures of you if it makes you uncomfortable."
"You haven't posted my face, so I guess it's fine." Because asking her to change her behavior makes me the controlling asshole, and I refuse to be that guy. "Just... maybe be careful about details? Locations, schedules, that kind of thing?"
