Mr. Stranger

Chapter 3: Her Name on His Skin

They’d lasted three days.

Three days of pretending the walls between them weren’t made of grief, guilt, and unanswered questions. Three days of silent breakfasts and quiet nights, the only sound between them the crackling of the fire that kept the cabin breathing.

Aria had kept mostly to the bedroom. Rowan stuck to the common area. They passed each other like ghosts, acknowledging each other only when necessary. She learned to listen for his footsteps, learned when he moved toward the kitchen and when he needed more coffee. She hated that she was starting to memorize his rhythm.

But it was better than looking at him. Because when she did, all she saw was James. James laughing. James breathing. James dying.

And Rowan, the last one to see him alive. The one who shut the investigation down before the questions could even begin.

On the fourth morning, Aria opened the firebox and her heart sank. Empty. The last log had burned through sometime during the night, and only the faintest ember glowed beneath a mound of ash.

“Rowan,” she called, her voice sharp, cold. “We’re out.”

He looked up from where he sat on the floor near the window, sketchbook resting on his knee. “Out?”

She stepped aside so he could see the charred remains. “We’re out of firewood.”

Rowan’s jaw clenched. For a moment, he just stared at the empty box like he could will the logs back into existence. Then he stood, walked to the closet, and pulled on his coat.

Aria folded her arms. “You’re not seriously going out there.”

“You want to freeze?” he asked, not even looking at her as he shoved his gloves on.

She didn’t respond. “Didn’t think so,” he muttered under his breath.

Rowan moved quickly, gathering an axe from the shed out back and heading into the woods beyond the cabin. The wind whipped at him, tearing through the trees like a living thing. Aria watched through the window, guilt chewing at her ribs.

She should’ve noticed the dwindling pile. She should’ve counted.

But she’d been too busy avoiding him. Too busy trying to pretend she wasn’t affected by him. That she hadn’t started writing about him in the pages of a journal she hid beneath her mattress.

After an hour passed, the unease started to settle in her chest. By the second hour, she couldn’t sit still.

When Rowan finally stumbled back through the door, he was shaking. Snow clung to his hair, his lashes, the seams of his coat. His lips were blue. His breaths came short and shallow, and the wood he carried dropped heavily onto the floor with a wet thud.

“Jesus,” Aria whispered, running toward him. “You’re frozen.”

“I’m fine,” he said, teeth chattering. But his knees buckled, and she caught him before he hit the ground.

“Sure you are,” she muttered, dragging his weight toward the couch. “You’re fine and freezing to death.”

She peeled off his coat, her hands trembling now, not from fear of him, but from fear for him. He was soaked through, the fabric of his shirt plastered to his skin. He was burning hot and shaking cold all at once.

“I’m fine,” he repeated, trying to pry her hands off him, but the words slurred as his head lolled against the armrest.

“Shut up and let me help you.”

She worked quickly, pulling the blanket from the back of the couch and throwing it over him. Then she ran to the kitchen to boil water, pouring it into a hot water bottle she pressed beneath the blanket near his chest. His eyes fluttered, his breath shallow.

Only then did she allow herself to pause, watching him, her heart kicking against her ribs like it wanted out.

She didn’t want to care.

But as she sat beside him, pressing a damp cloth to his forehead and whispering for him to hang on, Aria realized the worst had already happened.

She did care.

And that terrified her more than any storm outside.