There is a reason my business partners and almost everyone I have ever known refer to me as the mute.
I am not mute, technically. I can talk, but growing up in the mountains with no brothers or sisters, and only my grandma for company, made silence my normal state. I have never found many reasons to talk. The truth is that I am uncomfortable around strangers.
Especially around women, and even more around women as beautiful as this one.
She has long hair the color of sunshine, wrapped into one of those complicated swirling buns that certain women can perfect without effort. It looks like it could tumble down at any moment, yet it holds firm, secured with some kind of mysterious magic I will never understand.
Even with most of her hair pinned up, soft tendrils escape. They trace her tanned cheekbones and fall along her slim, delicate neck. I find myself looking longer than I should, trying not to stare but failing as I take in the outline of her curves,her hips, and her long, slender legs encased in tight blue jeans. Something stirs in my body before I force the thought away.
Stop it.
The poor woman is devastated, and I am standing here noticing how beautiful she is.
I should leave.
I should call someone, but I left my phone back in my lodge.
It is about a five-minute walk back to the main premises, and I could go alert someone so they can come and help her. But what if she moves? What if something happens before they arrive? I would never forgive myself.
I stand awkwardly, arguing with myself for several minutes. Finally, I give in to what I know I must do.
I approach slowly, shuffling my feet to make enough noise against the fallen twigs and leaves to warn her of my presence, giving her time to notice me and run away if that is what she wants. She probably will. I am a large man, and I have been told my face is the type that scares women and small children. Some women like large men, but that is rare, and most seem intimidated.
But she does not notice me, not until I am standing right in front of her and the tips of my boots enter her field of vision. When she finally looks up, she does not flinch or scream or even blink. She simply keeps crying, those heavy tears streaming down her eyes.
My heart clenches.
I hate seeing her cry.
I feel an urgent need to do something, anything to stop the tears, to make it so that she never has to cry again.
But I have no idea what I am supposed to do. I have never been in this situation before. Does she want a hug, or does she want me to leave her alone?
“Sorry.” She gives me a watery smile through her tears. “I just… don’t know how to stop.”
She wipes her face and struggles to get to her feet, and I lean down, reaching out to help her. I grasp her hands as gently as I can, and she falls against my chest, staying there.
Experimentally, my hand moves to her waist. She does not push away from me, although she looks up sharply at the contact.
Our eyes meet for one long, weighted moment. Then she buries her face against my chest again, sobbing quietly.
I stay still.
My mind races, running useless calculations, making sure I am not holding her too tightly, not breathing too loudly, not doing anything that might add to her distress.
It is the first time a woman has ever cried in my arms, and I do not want to make it worse.
I run my hand down her back, feeling how slender she is and how slight her frame feels against mine.
I feel too large and bulky around her. I hope my size does not frighten her. It does not seem to right now, although she may simply be too overwhelmed to notice.
When she calms down, she might feel differently.
For now, she clutches my shirt, soaking it with her tears. I lift my hand to her hair, smoothing it gently, remembering the care I always took with fragile things.
“It is okay,” I murmur, repeating the quiet reassurance my grandmother used to give me whenever I was upset as a child. “Everything will be okay.”
“But it will not be,” she says, drawing back, her eyes swimming with pain and anger. “It has been five years. I thought I would be fine after five years. I thought I would not even remember him after that long, but here I am crying over him again.”