The midafternoon sun shines through the hole in the hut, coaxing my awake, and a low fire flickers in the pit below it.

I don't remember falling asleep, or when Jason returned to the hut, or when he decided to nap beside me. But here I am, wide awake and using his shoulder as a makeshift pillow.

It's not the most comfortable place in the world—his muscles are hard under my cheek—but it's far from the worst.

I blink the sleep from my eyes and glance up at the roof, a sigh slipping past my lips. But my gaze betrays me, drifting to the man beside me. I can't help but let my eyes trace over his features, as if they'll reveal all his hidden secrets and thoughts.

If only it were that easy.

My eyes settle on a scar above his brow, the small pink mark barely visible under his thick brow. Without thinking, my hand lifts, wanting to trace the burn mark on the top of his ear, but I stop myself just short of touching him.

What am I even doing?

"What are you doing?"

His voice startles me, and I snap my hand back like I've been burned. Jason's looking at me, his eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and something else I can't quite place.

"Nothing," I mutter, rolling off his chest. I should turn my back to him, but I don't. Instead, I stay facing him, as if I can't bring myself to completely shut him out.

"You were about to touch me."

I don't bother denying it. Instead, I nod toward the scar. "How did you get that?"

He rubs a finger over the scar, eyes going distant for a moment before they find mine again.

"Got it in a hockey game a few seasons back. We were deep into the third game, tied. I was blocking the net, focused on the puck, when another player slammed into me from the side, pushing me into the goalposts."

He chuckles, a sound that vibrates through the silence of the night. "Felt like I got hit by a freight train. Next thing I knew, I was on the ice, blood running down my face. The ref stopped the game long enough to patch me up, and then I was back out there."

I can almost see it, the clash on the ice, the quick return to the game despite the injury. His voice is calm, like he's telling me about a simple trip to the store, but there's a fondness in it, a love for the game that goes beyond the physical scars.

"No big heroic tale," he finishes. "Just a reminder that even in a fast-paced game, accidents happen. Sometimes you end up with a scar and a good story."

A breath I didn't realize I was holding slips out as I listen to the sound of nature outside, the quiet sound mixing with his words.

"What about your ear?" I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper. "That didn't happen in a hockey game, did it?"

He laughs, the sound low and rich, and shakes his head, his hair falling into his eyes. "No, that's from my other job."

My brow furrows. "Firefighting?"

"Yeah," he says, the pride in his voice unmistakable. "We were clearing a burning building—an old apartment complex. A beam from the roof came down and skimmed my ear. Nearly hit my buddy, but we got out okay. No one else was inside, thank God."

The way he tells it, you'd think it was no big deal. Just another day on the job. But there's something deeper in his tone when he talks about being a firefighter, something that makes me realize I've only seen a fraction of who Jason really is.

"I've never heard you talk about it," I say, as if those are the only words my brain can manage right now. "Never seen it mentioned." Matt hadn't even mentioned it, not that he spent his days talking about Jason, but I thought it would have been something that came up in conversation.

He looks at me, his eyes searching mine. "No one asks." He shrugs and then lets out a laugh, a slight sardonic tone to his voice. "I don't even think the media knows." His eyes settle on mine, "This world thinks all I care for is the game, and the groupies." His eyes are searching mine, like he knows that's what I think.

His words linger in the air as he turns away, settling back into the leaves. I can feel the burn of them in the back of my throat, to live a life so open to the public, to have their every opinion in your face, would be quite draining.

The fire crackles low in the pit, filling the shack with a smoky, earthy scent. Jason sits beside me now, his long legs stretched out, his shoulder brushing mine. He doesn't say anything, just stares into the flames like they hold all the answers he's looking for.

The silence between us feels... heavier tonight. I can't tell if it's the weight of the day or the fact that we're starting to get used to each other. Or maybe it's that neither of us can shake the unspoken question: what happened to the person who built this place?

I glance at the trinkets I've found and arranged them on the floor in front of me—a worn coin, a weathered photo, a cracked compass that no longer works. It's such a strange collection, these remnants of a life we'll never fully understand.

"You've got your little treasure chest going there," Jason says, his voice low and warm.

I glance over at him, arching an eyebrow. "You have something against me keeping souvenirs?"

"Nope," he says, popping the "p" with a grin. "I think it's kind of cute, actually. Like you're building your own museum of lost things."

I scoff, but a small smile tugs at my lips. "It's not a museum. It's just... something to do. Something to remind me that people were here before us."

Jason turns his head to look at me, his expression serious now. "And that they made it out."

I nod slowly, even though neither of us knows if that's true. It's easier to believe it, though, easier to think that whoever built this place got rescued, that they didn't just... disappear.

The thought sends a shiver down my spine, and I inch closer to the fire.

Jason notices, of course. He always notices. "Cold?"

"I'm fine."

He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push it. Instead, he leans forward and throws another stick on the fire, the flames leaping higher as the wood catches.

"There," he says, sitting back down. "That should help."

"Thanks," I mumble, my voice softer than I intended.

He doesn't respond, just stretches his arms behind his head and leans back against the wall. The movement makes his muscles ripple slightly, and I quickly look away, my cheeks heating.

"I saw that," he says, his voice teasing.

"Saw what?"

"You checking me out."

I roll my eyes, trying to ignore the way my face burns. "You wish."

"Arden," he says, leaning closer, his tone mock-serious. "It's okay. I know I'm irresistible."

I snort. "You're delusional."

"Delusional, irresistible—same difference."

I shove his shoulder lightly, and he laughs, the sound rich and deep and so contagious that I find myself laughing too.