And I should leave him alone.
I absolutely should.
But I won't.
I can't explain it, not in any way that makes sense. Maybe it's because I'm grieving and I don't know what to do with all the empty spaces Mom left behind. Maybe it's because I'm in a new town where I don't know anyone and he's the first person who's felt real instead of politely friendly. Maybe it's because there's something about the way he looks at Ridge, soft and unguarded in a way he never is with people, that makes me think there's more under the surface than he wants anyone to see.
Or maybe I'm just stubborn.
Yeah. Probably that.
I sit up, a plan already forming.
I can't just show up at his cabin again. He made that pretty clear. But what if I have a reason? A good reason. A reason that doesn't involve my kitchen actively trying to drown itself.
What if I make him something?
Food. I can make food. That's what people do, right? Someone helps you, you thank them with food. It's a social contract as old as time. And it gives me an excuse to see him again without looking like I'm just showing up because I want to stare at his shoulders some more.
Which I don't.
Okay, I do. But that's not the only reason.
I pull out my phone and start scrolling through recipes. It needs to be something good. Something homemade. The kind of thing that says *thank you for helping me* but also *I'm a competent human being who can operate an oven, please don't write me off completely.*
No pressure.
Two days later
It's Saturday, and I'm standing in my kitchen staring at a pan of lasagna like it might have answers.
It looks good. It smells amazing. I used Mom's recipe, the one she'd make for every major life event, good or bad. Graduation. Breakups. The week after Dad died. It's comfort food in the most literal sense, and if I'm being honest, making it felt like having her here with me for a little while.
I miss her so much.
But I'm not thinking about that right now. Right now, I'm thinking about whether showing up at Eli Cross's cabin with a lasagna is going to make me look thoughtful or unhinged.
It's a fine line. I cover the pan with foil, grab my keys, and head out before I can talk myself out of it.
He didn’t lie. He really did bring my car over two days ago, but during the night. I didn’t even notice it until I woke up and saw my car in the driveaway.
The drive out to his place is easier this time. I actually know where I'm going. The roads are quiet. It's mid-morning, and the light through the trees is that perfect golden color that makes everything look like a painting.
I'm definitely not nervous.
Okay, I'm a little nervous.
By the time I pull up to his cabin, my hands are gripping the steering wheel hard enough to leave marks. His truck is parked outside. He's home. Of course he's home. Where else would he be?
I grab the lasagna, take a breath, and get out of the car.
Ridge appears first, bounding around the side of the cabin like I'm his long-lost favorite person. I crouch down to greet him, and he nearly knocks me over in his enthusiasm.
"Hi, buddy," I say, laughing. "I missed you too."
"What are you doing here?"
I look up.