Chapter 1 – Nature, My Ass

JULIA

If there were a world record for catching your boyfriend cheating and driving to the middle of nowhere before sunset, I’d have smashed it.

“Oh yes baby, take it!” Neil had groaned—mid‑thrust with some stranger—as I stood frozen in the doorway.

On the sofa where we’d eaten countless takeout dinners, my boyfriend of two years—"Neil I-Swear-I’m-Not-Like-Other-Guys" Parker—was tangled up in a woman whose fake moans could’ve shattered glass.

I blinked twice.

For a second, I thought I’d walked into the wrong apartment. Because surely my boyfriend wasn’t starring in a low-budget porno on our couch.

My camera bag hit the floor with a thud.

“Jules,” he sputtered.

I could practically hear the world’s worst soundtrack screech to a halt.

“It’s not what you think!” His pants were still shackled around his ankles.

Then the sarcasm kicked in as I turned to face him.

Muscle memory at this point.

“No?” I said sweetly, my voice carrying that dangerous calm that always came right before I went nuclear. “What is it then, huh, Neil? Did you accidentally dive headfirst into her crotch?!”

He opened and closed his mouth, gaping like a malfunctioning goldfish auditioning for air.

The woman—whose name I neither knew nor cared to—squealed, clutched one of my expensive throw pillows like it was a prize, and bolted half‑naked for the door.

I didn’t stick around for an encore performance.

Neil scrambled after me, pants half-on, tripping over his own excuses. “It’s not what you think—she means nothing—I was drunk—”

I didn’t bother listening. All I saw was a man who’d just realized—too late—that he’d made a life-ruining mistake.

Which, congratulations to him, he had.

I grabbed my camera—priorities, obviously—and the jar of emergency Nutella from the counter, along with whatever dignity hadn’t already fled the scene. If I was going to have a breakdown, it was going to be a photo essay in despair, fuelled by chocolate.

By late afternoon, I was already on the road, the city lights shrinking to a smear in my rear-view mirror. My assignment for Wild North Magazine wasn’t due for a few weeks, so I told myself this was prep time—nature photography, upstate New York. Forests. Lakes. Solitude.

Family wasn’t an option. Mum raised me solo after Dad went out for diapers and never came back. She passed a few years ago—that’s when I met Neil. He was one of the nurses at the hospital. Funny how grief makes you grab onto the wrong people.

I shook my head to clear the memory.

The highway stretched ahead like a dare. I cranked the radio, belted out breakup anthems until my throat hurt, and stopped at two gas stations for snacks and coffee that tasted like burnt rubber and bad choices.

Somewhere around Albany, I pulled into a rest stop and let my forehead thunk against the steering wheel.

“What.The.F**k?!”

The fluorescent lights buzzed like they had opinions. A trucker smoked nearby, eyeing me like I was a headline waiting to happen...City Girl Loses It on I-87.

He wasn’t wrong.

Either that, or I’d go bat-shit crazy and give Neil another excuse to show up at A and E with his tragic puppy-dog eyes.

I told myself this trip was about work.

About art.

About capturing the stillness of nature.

But really, it was about not collapsing in the ruins of my apartment, suffocating under Neil's cologne and betrayal.

My couch.

My apartment.

Mine!

The mantra pulsed like a war drum, each beat sparking another mental image of me with a blowtorch, turning betrayal into rubble.

“No…Nope! Lets not.” I muttered, shaking my head and gripping the wheel tighter.

One breath.

Then another.

Then I pulled out onto the I-87 before I retraced my steps an actually auditioned for an arson charge. 

The further north I drove, the more the world changed. The skyline gave way to rolling hills, then to forests that swallowed the road whole.

By the time dusk began to settle, the trees stood taller, closer—like guardians watching me pass. My shoulders ached, the seatbelt cutting into my collarbone. My eyes burned from too much caffeine and too little sleep.

Somewhere between the turn for Cranberry Lake and a badly timed yawn, my GPS froze. “Recalculating,” it chirped smugly—then flatlined. “Of course,” I muttered, smacking the screen. “Betrayal’s contagious this week.”

I nearly missed the turnoff—a narrow dirt lane almost swallowed by the forest. A warped wooden sign read: Whispering Pines Lodges – 2 Miles.

Except I didn’t see the “2 Miles” part. It was buried behind a curtain of overgrown weeds, like the forest didn’t want company.

I turned anyway, gravel crunching under my tires, heart thudding with a mix of exhaustion and something that might have been hope.

The lake came into view first—a flash of silver through the trees, dusk light pooling across the surface. Mist hovered like breath in the cooling air.

By the time I rattled down a dirt path lined with pines and second thoughts, the last of the daylight was fading.

The cabin I pulled up to looked… rustic. Secluded. Woodsy enough to be the cover of a nature magazine. It waited by the water, promising quiet, maybe even healing—and, with any luck, not a single man in sight.

I told myself this was exactly what I needed: quiet, space with no drama. Just me, my camera, and maybe a jar of Nutella if things got dire.

Perfect.

At least the wilderness couldn’t cheat on me.

BEN

The thing about living alone in the woods is that squirrels don’t care if you’re made of orange rock.

People? They stare. Whisper. Ask dumb questions like, Does it hurt? or Can you still… y’know?

(For the record, that last one’s none of their damn business.)

So yeah. I bought a cabin. Well—two, actually.

That way I wouldn’t have to worry about uninvited guests freaking out when they saw me.

I bought myself some quiet. A bit of peace.

The place creaks in the winter, sure. But it’s mine.

The kind of place where the loudest sound is the axe biting into wood, or the wind rattling the eaves. Where no one looks twice if you walk down to the lake at midnight just to watch the stars.

Out here, I’ve got birds. Deer. A raccoon named Gary who’s probably plotting to steal my toaster.

It’s fine. I’m fine.

Reed sends tech once a month to check the generator. Johnny drops by uninvited with beer and bad exfoliating jokes. Sue worries. She’s good at that.

It’s been three years since I left the Baxter Building.

I still dream of metal corridors and alarms—Reed shouting over the roar of flame. Sometimes I wake up with the smell of ozone in my nose, remembering the moment everything changed.

So, I split wood.

Axe up. Breathe out. Crack.

Order from chaos.

My kind of therapy.

The sun was sliding low when I heard the rumble.

A car.

Which was weird enough.

Nobody drives this far down the trail unless they’re lost or looking for something they shouldn’t find. And definitely not with their music blasting some pop anthem about “independent women who don’t need no man.”

Great. Another tourist who missed their turn. Or worse— the press.

I snorted.

“Guess the universe has a sense of humour.”

Only this time, they weren’t just lost, and they weren't turning around.

No.

They were pulling up to my second cabin. The one I’d bought purely to keep everyone else the hell away.

Gravel spat. Dust rose. And then—her.

The look of someone pretending she totally knew how to reverse park on a gravel path and failing miserably. She fought the car like it had personally betrayed her, jerking it into a stop with all the grace of a three-point turn gone to hell.

Door slammed. Out stumbled a human hurricane.

Curly hair. Jeans and boots two shades too city for this terrain.

I should’ve turned her back.

Let her realize her mistake and leave.

But I watched as she hauled a duffel from the trunk, humming like she’d just conquered Everest. Her curls caught the dusk light. Her camera thudded against her hip like it had places to be.

Then she vanished inside the cabin.

My cabin.

Like I said—the universe has a sense of humour.

JULIA

I threw the car into park and stared at the cabin.

“Well,” I muttered. “Looks cabin-y enough.”

I didn’t know it yet, but I was at the wrong cabin. The one I wasn’t supposed to find.

I shouldered the door. It felt a little stuck, but it gave way.

Inside smelled of pine, dust, and something faintly metallic—like the ghosts of a hundred damp winters.

There was a stone fireplace, a sagging chair, and moose-print curtains trying way too hard.

I dropped my bag. The floor groaned like it took offense.

Still, there was something peaceful about it.

I didn’t see the keys for the cabin on the counter, maybe they left them in a drawer or something.

I was about to take a look, but then the light slanted through the trees, and I saw it—the lake, framed in the window, mist curling like breath.

My fingers moved before my brain did. I grabbed my camera and headed out.

Click.

Adjust.

Click.

I crouched, angled, and took a few more shots.

I was lost in the rhythm.

Then I swung around.

And froze.

A figure at the edge of the trees came into focus.

Huge.

Axe on one shoulder.

Eyes like a winter sky locked on me.

My camera slipped from my fingers, thunking into the dirt.

“Holysh—” I gasped, stumbling back and landing on my ass.

“Bigfoot’s real—and apparently he likes plaid.”

BEN

I stared down at her.

“Lady, if you print that, I’m suing.”

She blinked up at me from the dirt, like I’d just stepped out of a crypt.

Not the worst reaction I’ve gotten.

She didn’t scream.

Didn’t faint. Or point. Or ask me if I was “the Thing” like I was some zoo exhibit.

Just sat there for a second, lips parted.

Then:

“Oh. Shit,” she breathed—half-gasp, half-realization.

And like this was just a normal Tuesday, she added, “You live here?”

“No,” I deadpanned, shifting the axe to one shoulder. “I just thought I’d camp out with flannel and an axe for fun.”

She blinked.

I sighed. I stared at her.

“Of course I live here... You don’t.”

She glanced around, then back at me.

“Wait—this isn’t Whispering Pines Lodge?”

I nodded toward the trees. “Whispering Pines Lodge is about 2 miles down the road.”

Her eyes widened. “So, I broke into your cabin?”

“Technically,” I grunted. “Cabin Two’s mine, over there. You are in One.”

She blinked. “You own this place?”

“Both of them.”

“Well, shit,” she glanced at the cabin, then back at me. “Guess that makes me the intruder with questionable timing.” 

JULIA

I should’ve been scared. But I wasn’t.

I mean, I swear I wasn’t trying to stare. But holy metamorphic miracle—he was huge.

SUV-in-a-hoodie huge. Seven feet, easy. Shoulders like a mountain range. Eyes like soft winter sky—blue that didn’t match the scowl.

Maybe heartbreak had fried my survival instincts. Or maybe those eyes weren’t threatening. They were tired. Lonely. A little sad.

He lowered the axe.

“Sorry!” I blurted. “Didn’t mean to, uh… interrupt your tree-murdering ritual?”

The… man? Mountain? Boulder-with-a-voice? blinked down at me, unimpressed.

“Splitting firewood,” he grunted.

“Right. Totally normal hobby. Just out here… smashing logs. As one does.”

He didn’t laugh—just shifted the axe to one shoulder, waiting.

The forest filled the silence: wind through leaves, the faint lap of water against the shore. My heart thumped far too loudly for casual conversation.

Did I mention that when I’m flustered, nervous, or there’s awkward silence… I talk faster?

Cue verbal diarrhoea.

“You live here?”

“I thought we established that already.”

Right. Sarcasm. We had that in common.

“Sorry!” I said again, fumbling with my camera strap. “Didn’t mean to invade your… giant rock-man space. I’m Julia.”

I scrambled to my feet, brushing pine needles from my jeans.

He sighed, long-sufferingly. “Name’s Ben.”

“I’ll call the rental office and fix it. Promise. No arson, no trespassing—just one very confused city girl.”

He scratched the back of his neck. The motion made the flannel shift over his boulder-shoulders, and if I wasn’t actively repressing a breakdown, I might’ve been way too interested in how that shirt fit.

“You drove up here alone?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at me like I was some kind of cracked egg he wasn’t sure how to hold.

“Long story,” I muttered.

“City?”

“Brooklyn.”

He nodded. “That explains the boots.”

I looked down. “Hey! These are combat chic.”

“Yeah, well you stepped in raccoon shit.”

I groaned. “Great..Of course I did.”

BEN

I should’ve told her to leave.

But she was already digging her phone out, holding it up and squinting. “No signal. Of course.”

I sighed. “Mine’s landline only. You can call them from the main cabin if you want.”

She blinked. “Wait, you’re inviting me into the horror shack with the axe guy?”

I stared flatly.

“Right,” she muttered, slinging her camera back over her shoulder. “Reflex sarcasm. My bad.”

Her smile was crooked. Defensive. The kind of grin people wear to hold back cracks.

I knew the look.

I’d worn it too.

She followed me up the path, mumbling something about ‘the world’s weirdest meet-cute’ and trying not to trip over pinecones.

JULIA

He held the door for me. And okay, maybe I was just a little surprised by the manners. Didn’t expect politeness from someone built like a granite golem with resting-grump face.

Inside was cosy. Woodstove in the corner, books stacked in neat towers, tools on the wall. And clean—like, obsessively clean.

He picked up the phone and handed it to me.

We stood there a beat too long—not awkward, just… still.

Then I turned toward the phone, muttering, “Thanks. For not chopping me into firewood.”

His mouth twitched. Barely.

But it was there.

A smile.

Small.

Real.

BEN

She smelled like citrus and stress.

She mumbled while she dialled, pacing barefoot across my rug, the city was still clinging to her.