6. Charlie
1429 Words
"Lock the door," he said gently. Not an order exactly. More information. "If you need anything, knock. I'll be here."
I hesitated, my fingers resting on the brass handle. The room behind me glowed warm with the fire crackling, lamps low, the scent of pine and citrus hanging in the air. Safety that felt intentional yet staged.
I looked at him. "You don't usually give people orders wrapped in politeness."
It wasn't a question. It was an observation.
The corner of his mouth lifted. "Only when I'm trying to not make things worse."
That felt...almost honest. Disarming in a way I didn't like.
"What's your name?" I asked, my voice rough and racing.
His gaze darted away for a moment. "Alexandre."
We stood there for a moment, silence wrapping around us like a blanket.
He gestured down the hall. "My room is there." One door down. Close enough that I could see the dark wood, the subtle carvings along the frames. "Goodnight, Charlie."
Goodnight.
Like this was normal. Like I wasn't standing in a borrowed jacket, bruised and shaken, stuck in a mountain lodge with a man who'd declared me under his protection like it was a law of nature and not some ego boost.
I watched him step into his room, the door closing softly behind him. He didn't spare me another glance. Didn't turn back to watch me close my door. Only then did I lock mine. The click echoed louder than it should have.
I leaned back against the door, heart racing, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer answers. My mind kept circling the same impossible contradictions.
I didn't trust him. I felt safer knowing he was there.
Those two truths collided and refused to seperate.
Moving through the room restlessly, I cataloged everything. Exits, windows, shadows. Old habits. Survival instincts honed over the years of being told that someone else knew better than I did.
Hunter used to say it was concern.
Let me handle that.
You don't need to stress.
I just want what's best for you.
I'd believed him. For a long time.
Alexandre hadn't asked what I wanted. That alone should have set every alarm screaming. And yet-he hadn't softened it with affection or guilt. He hadn't wrapped control in romance. He'd been blunt. Protective. Unapolgetic.
It felt similar. And it felt different.
That distinction mattered more than I wanted it too.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I stared at the fire until my eyes burned. The silence pressed in, broken only by the wind howling outside. The storm was louder now. Meaner. Snow piled relentlessly, sealing us in layer by layer.
Safe.
Trapped.
Both words felt interchangeable tonight.
I slept badly. Half-dreams and sharp awakenings. Every sound jolted my upright. The crack of ice, the thud of snow sliding off the roof, the low groan of the building shifting under pressure. The lodge felt more alivve at night, like each beam breathed, each howl out in the distance was closer than it seemed.
Each time I woke, my gaze flicked instinctively to the door.
To his door. Just beyond my wall.
Too close.
I hated how aware I was of it. Of him. Of the space he occupied without making a sound. It wasn't fear that gripped me, it was something stranger. An awareness that felt more physical than anything, like standing too near a live wire. I could almost map the distance between us. Count the steps. Feel the weight of his presence through stone and wood as if walls were a suggestion rather than a barrier.
That was ridiculous.
I told myself it was adrenaline. Trauma. Residual panic searching for some kind of threat or a shield. My brain was grasping for something solid in the darkness.
Except my body didn't feel braced for danger. It felt...attuned. Each time the wind howled, something in me eased instead of tensing, as if a part of me believed that whatever might come through the darkness wouldn't reach me first. That someone else would hear it. Stop it. Stand in the way.
I rolled onto my side, pressing a palm to my chest, trying to slow my breathing.
This was not safety. This was not comfort. This was dependence, and I told myself that I couldn't let myself fall into that trap again.
Hunter's voice echoed in my head. I've got you. You don't need to worry. It was always followed by the quiet expectation that I would relinquish my control. Step back. Let him step forward. Let him decide.
Alexandre hadn't said that.
He hadn't offered reassurance. He hadn't promised anything that he didn't truly believe he couldn't do.
And somehow that made the pull worse.
I lay there, counting the seconds between the sounds of the storm, aware of my heartbeat and breath. A part of me—some deep, traitorous part—kept reaching outward, basking in the knowledge that he was close. Awake or asleep, I didn't know. Only that the awareness never faded.
Like my body had just made a decision that my mind hadn't been consulted on.
When sleep finally dragged me into the dark, it wasn't restful. It was filled with heat and motion, the sense of being watched.
Morning came slowly, light bleeding through the heavy clouds. Christmas Day, according to the small clock on the mantel. I stared at the numbers just feeling hollow and numb.
This was not how the year was supposed to end.
Or begin.
I showered and dressed. Tried to resemble something like competence. My reflection looked tired. Older. The bruise on my cheek had settled into a mottled bloom of purple and yellow.
I touched it lightly, then dropped my hand. I could cover it with makeup. Pretend like it never happened. But it did. And I would not shy away from this. Not like last time.
The weather outside was worse. The world beyond the window had vanished into a blanket of white. No edges. No treelines. No sky. Just a flurry of movement.
A knock sounded and I froze.
Another knock sounded, gentler this time.
I opened the door a fraction, the chain still in place. A tray waited on a cart, covered dishes, steam curling beneath the domes. The staff member smiled politely at me.
"Complements of the lodge," she said. "Merry Christmas, Miss."
I unlocked the door, allowing him to come inside. He wheeled the cart in, placing the dishes on the table. The door closed again behind him before I could ask questions.
I stared at the tray.
It was...thoughtful. Soup. Freshly baked bread. Fruit. Tea instead of coffee. Nothing heavy or indulgent.
He'd noticed I hadn't eaten.
The realization sat strangely in my chest. Uncomfortable and intimate.
I ate slowly, listening to the storm. When I finished, I stood in the doorway for a moment, staring at the closed door next to mine. Alexandre's door. I didn't know why its silence irritated me.
You're safer when he's not hovering, I told myself.
So why did it feel like abandonment?
I shook my head and stepped into the corridor. The lodge was quieter than last night. Snow had claimed it fully now. Staff moved like ghosts. Fires burned lower. Conversations were hushed, as if sound itself might anger the storm worse.
I found Alexandre near the windows overlooking the valley, speaking quietly with a member of staff. He turned as I approached.
"Good morning," he said, giving me a small smile. Then, softer, "Merry Christmas."
Something in me cracked open.
Hunter used to say that too. Always with an expectation. A performance. A receipt to be redeemed later.
Alexandre just...said it. No flowers. No apology. No demand for gratitude.
I swallowed hard.
"Is this your idea of festive?" I asked, gesturing vaguely at the storm.
He gave me a wry smile. "The mountain doesn't celebrate. It endures."
I huffed a laugh. "Figures."
He studied me. Not my body or my bruises. But my face...my posture. Like he was reading me rather than assessing how I'd be useful to him. It was uncomfortable but not unpleasant. Something begged for me to step closer.
"How did you sleep?" He asked.
"Poorly."
"I'm sorry."
No but. No justification.
That, more than anything, unsettled me just a little.
The storm raged on. The lodge held. And I stood there, caught between the instinct to run and the realization that, for the first time in a long while, kindness wasn't asking me to pay for it.
I didn't know which terrified me more.
- Writer
