Under my hand, his fingers move slightly. For a second, I think he might turn his hand over, lace our fingers together.
Instead, he pulls back gently and clears his throat. “Careful. Might take you up on that.”
“That’s the idea.”
Sunday pancakes. Our thing.The thought sneaks in before I can stop it.
We finish breakfast in silence, but it’s not awkward. It’s comfortable and full, as if something fundamental has shifted.
The next morning, Tank drives us to Roadside to collect my stuff and my car. We make quick work of it, and I follow him back to the cabin in my Toyota 4Runner.
The rest of Saturday is laid back, which is a pleasant surprise.
Tank works. I sketch.
He disappears outside to split more wood, fix something on the porch, haul water from somewhere I don’t ask about. Every time he passes the window, I catch myself watching—the efficient economy of his movements, the way his shoulders flex under his thermal, the focused intensity he brings to even the smallest task.
I set up a makeshift workspace at his kitchen table, spreading out my sketchbook and pencils as if I have every right to colonize his space. He doesn’t complain. Doesn’t even comment. Just works around me, adjusting his own patterns to accommodate mine.
It should feel invasive—two people who barely know each other, orbiting the same small cabin. Instead, it feels natural, like we’ve been doing this for years instead of hours.
That thought unsettles me more than I want to admit.
By evening, I’ve filled three pages with thumbnail sketches—none of them for the New York commission. Instead, I’ve captured the angle of his shoulders through the window. The way his hands grip the axe handle. The play of firelight across the cabin walls.
I flip the sketchbook closed before he can see.
Dinner is simple—grilled cheese and tomato soup from a can—but we eat it at the small table like it’s a five-star meal. Tank asks about my art, and I find myself actually answering honestly. Not the polished version I give clients, but the real one. The messy, uncertain,I-have-no-idea-what-I’m-doing-half-the-timeversion.
He listens like everything I say matters.
That night, the couch argument happens again. I lose again. But this time, when I slip into his bed and pull the quilt up to my chin, I don’t feel like a guest.
I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Dangerous thought, Jessie. Very dangerous.
Sunday arrives soft and slow, the way weekends are supposed to but rarely do when you’re constantly moving.
I make pancakes again. Tank doesn't ask, but I catch the way his eyes light up when he smells the batter, the quiet satisfaction in his expression when I slide a stack across the table.
“You’re spoiling me,” he says.
“Consider it rent.”
“Told you I don’t want rent.”
“And I told you I don’t do charity.” I pour myself coffee, settling into the chair across from him. “So we compromise. I cook, you don't complain, and we both pretend this is a fair exchange.”
His mouth twitches. “Bossy.”
“You have no idea.”
We eat in comfortable silence, and I try not to think about how domestic this feels. Howright.
After breakfast, Tank heads outside again, muttering something about the woodpile and winter prep. I stay inside, working through some thumbnail sketches for the New York commission that feels more distant by the hour.
Sometime around midday, I glance up from my sketchbook.