He winces at my words. I’ve obviously said something wrong. I’m not good at this entertaining-friends-at-home thing, but I want to be. I start switching on the heaters to try and warm the place up. “I wish these things were on a timer. I hope it doesn’t take long to heat up.”

“We should take the hot chocolate on the porch,” he says. “Then you’ll feel the difference when you go back inside.”

“Sounds like you’ve done that before. I guess you know all the tricks, growing up in a place like this.”

He winces again. How many times can I put my foot in my mouth before the milk comes to a boil? I pull my beanie back on and resolve not to be so nosey. I grab mugs, heap a few spoonfuls of cocoa mix into each one.

“I have a favor to ask you, actually,” I say. “Well, at least, I think it’s you I need to ask.”

“I see. The hot chocolate’s a bribe, is it?”

I snap my head around, horrified. “No! Of course not,” I say.

He smiles at me. “It would take more than a mug of hot chocolate to bribe me.”

I narrow my eyes, thinking what I could add to sweeten the deal. “What if I told you I have marshmallows?”

“Damn,” he says, fisting his hands. “I thought I could resist. Whatever you need, Rosey. It’s yours.”

I laugh, partly because the tension between us seems to have dissolved, and partly because he’s funny. I wasn’t expecting that. I pour out the milk into both waiting mugs. The way he said my name replays in my head, and my smile stays planted on my face as I sprinkle each mug with marshmallows. Our fingers touch as he accepts the mug from me, and our eyes meet. If this was a different place and I hadn’t just ditched Frank at the altar yesterday, I’d think we were flirting. But that can’t be what this is.

My cheeks heat and I turn away to collect my mug so he doesn’t see.

He holds the cabin door open for me and we head outside.

A handmade wooden bench-swing hangs from the roof of the porch. Byron takes a seat, propping his crossed legs up on the porch railing, like he’s lived in this cabin his entire life. He fits. The colors of his clothes melt into the surrounding trees and mountains. The scruff of his beard looks like it’s been there ten years rather than the two days the length suggests. He looks solid and part of this place in a way that makes me feel safe—like I can stay for a while.