Mia

I booked the Airbnb at 2:14 a.m., sitting cross-legged on my dorm bed with my laptop warming my thighs and my heart in my throat.

The listing was called Glass & Pine: A Modern Retreat in the Woods. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A wood stove. A bed that faced the trees, as if you could fall asleep watching the forest breathe. It was two hours from campus, down a gravel road, and the host described it as "a space for disconnecting." I almost laughed. I was trying to do the exact opposite; I was trying to finally connect.

I booked it for Thursday through Sunday, three weeks from now. The weekend after graduation. My last weekend before the rest of my life.

When the confirmation email arrived, I forwarded it to Ryder with no subject line, just a single line: This is the place.

He replied at 3:08 a.m. Looks perfect. I'll meet you there.

We didn't text after that. We didn't discuss logistics or expectations or what it would feel like to be alone together in a stranger's house with nothing but our own fragile trust. The silence felt deliberate, like we were both holding our breath underwater, waiting to surface.

The weeks that followed were a strange, suspended kind of agony. I aced my finals. I packed my dorm. I attended graduation rehearsals, smiled for family photos and gave my mother vague answers about my plans. Aurora, perceptive as always, watched me with those quiet, knowing eyes. She didn't push. She just hugged me a little tighter than usual and said, "Whatever you're about to do, be brave."

I nearly broke then.

The night before the Airbnb, I packed a small overnight bag. Jeans, a soft sweater, a silk camisole I'd bought specifically for this weekend because it made me feel like someone who might be worth undressing. I didn't pack anything overtly seductive, no lace, no garters, no performance. That wasn't the point. The point was to arrive as myself and let him meet me there.

I barely slept. In the morning, I showered, braided my wet hair, and didn't put on makeup. I wanted him to see me without armour. I wanted to be brave.

The drive took two hours and fifteen minutes. The gravel road twisted through dense pines, and the air grew cooler the farther I went, until I finally pulled up to a small, modern structure of glass and dark wood, half hidden among the trees. Smoke curled from the chimney. The host had lit the stove before my arrival, just as the listing promised. The sight of it, warm, waiting, intentionally made my eyes sting.

Ryder's car was already there.

He was standing on the deck, leaning against the railing, a grey jacket over his shoulders and his hands in his pockets. He looked up when I parked, and even from this distance, I could feel the gravity of the moment pulling us together.

I got out of the car. My legs felt like water.

"You're here," he said.

"So are you."

He smiled, just barely. "I brought groceries. And firewood. Seemed like the kind of place that deserves a real fire."

I didn't know why that detail undid me. Maybe because it was so ordinary, so considerate, so utterly him. He wasn't just showing up for whatever happened in the bedroom. He was showing up for the whole weekend, for the quiet moments in between, for the fire that would burn long after the sun went down.

"The host left a key code," I said. "I'll send it to you."

"I already got it from the booking," he said. "But you can send it anyway. Feels more like yours that way."

I walked to the door, my fingers clumsy on my phone. The lock clicked open. I pushed the door wide, and the scent of cedar and woodsmoke washed over me. The main room was exactly like the photos: warm wood floors, a deep sofa, a bed dressed in white linen facing a wall of trees. It was beautiful. It was terrifying.

Ryder followed me inside, setting a canvas bag of groceries on the kitchen counter. He moved quietly, giving me space, letting me explore.

"This is strange," I said finally, turning to face him. "Being here. Actually being here."

"Strange good or strange bad?"

"Both."

He nodded. "That's fair."

I walked to the window and pressed my palm to the cold glass. Outside, the forest was still and silent, the trees bare in the late autumn chill. Inside, the fire crackled, and the man I had chosen was waiting for me to set the pace.

"No lesson tonight," I said, not turning around. "Can we just... exist here first? Eat dinner. Talk. Pretend we're just two people who rented a house in the woods for no reason at all?"

"Mia." His voice was gentle, so gentle it hurt. "That's exactly what we are. The lesson can wait. We have time."

I turned. He was standing by the fire, his face softened by the orange glow, and I thought: This is the moment I stopped being afraid.

"Thank you," I whispered.

He didn't say you're welcome. He just nodded, once, and began unpacking the groceries: pasta, tomatoes, a bottle of olive oil, a bar of dark chocolate. Simple things. Human things.

That night, we ate at the small wooden table. We talked about books, about childhood, about the careers we were both about to start. We didn't touch. We didn't mention the purpose of the weekend. We just built a bridge, plank by plank, out of ordinary words.

When I finally climbed into the bed alone, by my own choice, I lay awake listening to him settle onto the sofa in the other room. The fire had burned down to embers. The trees outside were invisible in the dark. Somewhere in the house, a man I trusted more than anyone was sleeping, or trying to.

I closed my eyes.

Tomorrow, the lesson will begin.

Tonight, I was just a girl in a glass house, learning how to feel safe.