He didn’t go inside the cabin. Instead, he strolled over to the side where a small clearing had a worn-down wooden workbench under a slanted tin roof. A rusty hook dangled from a beam, and an old cutting tarp was already spread out, clearly, this wasn’t the first ti he had done this out here.
He set the bags down on the tarp, and she followed his lead, placing her bag next to his. A few feet away, she hesitated, arms crossed, torn between stepping closer to give him a hand or just turning away.
He pulled out a knife, gave it a quick wipe with a cloth, and got started. He already separated everything in the forest, now he is making the pieces to store the at, and ready so at for dinner.
She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until she saw the knife glide through the at, handled by swift, practiced hands. Still, she turned her gaze away. She couldn’t bear to see the blood. Whenever she saw blood, it reminded her of sothing she wanted to forget because it made her feel weak.
"You don’t have to watch," he mumbled, not even looking at her.
"I’m not," she replied quietly, facing the trees. She knew she wasn’t weak, but this... this was intense. It felt real. It was all about survival.
He didn’t say anything. Just kept at it, totally focused and efficient. For a long ti, the only sound in the forest was the slicing of the at. It probably should’ve grossed her out, but it didn’t. Maybe it was because she finally got it. He wasn’t doing this for fun; he was doing it because there was no delivery app out here. No grocery stores with ready-to-go chicken. No easy options. Just this.
Eventually, she heard the crackle of fire being lit. She turned to see that he had already cleaned everything. A small stone pit was ablaze, with flas growing upward. He had set aside a portion of the cleaned at and was now roasting so pieces for dinner. The rest of the at was carefully packed into vacuum-seal bags and laid neatly in a tal container, half-buried in the earth near the cabin, likely serving as a forest-style freezer or cold pit.
"Is that how you store food?" she asked, looking surprised.
He nodded. "Bears won’t touch what they can’t sll if stored properly and buried deep."
"Wow, you live like this every day?" she asked with a gentle curiosity.
He paused for a mont, considering her question. "Is there any other way to live here?" he replied, his voice thoughtful yet warm.
She watched him rotating the at. He moved as if he didn’t even think about it, as if survival had beco instinct. "I would have burned the whole cabin down by now if I tried this alone," she thought, but didn’t say.
After a few long minutes, he suddenly stopped and didn’t even look at her when he spoke again.
"You know how to cook?" he asked like it was the most obvious thing ever.
She blinked. "Huh, what?"
"You heard ."
Her eyebrows furrowed. "Why do you wanna know?"
"Well, since I saved your life..." he started, his voice all casual but kind of smug, "you should probably pitch in a bit."
She raised an eyebrow. "Pitch in? I an, I held the bag for you. It was super heavy."
"So, you think just bringing a bag will help you survive out here and pitch in? I’m the one hunting deer, cutting it up, and now roasting it, go cook so rice," he said like it was no big deal. "It’s simple enough. Just need water, fire, and grain. You can handle that, right?"
Her stomach twisted. She looked at him, confused. "Why rice?"
"Look, I’m the one making the at, and I’m not doing all the cooking. If I did, you’d just be a guest," he said with no emotion. "You’re not a guest."
She paused. "Seriously? That’s your deal for not leaving to die out here?"
He shrugged. "Forest rules. You get saved, you pitch in."
She opened her mouth to argue but then closed it again. She didn’t want to look useless. Or worse—helpless. He already saw her like a stray cat wandering into his territory. She should’ve told him no, said she couldn’t cook to save her life. She once burned soup. Soup. But sothing about his cocky smirk made her say, "Fine."
"Good," he replied simply. "Everything you need is inside."
She got to the cabin and pushed the door open like she owned the place. Inside, everything was sharp and a bit intimidating, just like him, simple but with a pricey vibe. One wall was decked out with guns, and another had knives. In the corner, a fireplace was crackling away. It didn’t feel cozy; it felt more like a military outpost.
"The kitchen’s that way," he said, casually pointing as he got back to his business, not seeming to care if she flopped or totally wrecked the place.
She walked into the kitchen and took in the strange setup. Sleek black cabinets, an industrial stove, cast-iron pans that looked ancient. The fridge was packed with stuff that could have been so wild science project.
Taking a deep breath, she thought,
How hard could this be?
She added water to the pot, tossed in so rice, sprinkled a bit of salt, and set it by the fire.
Easy.
Five minutes later
Smoke started rising, and not the good kind. She frowned and stirred the pot. The water looked... off. It was all thick and starchy, almost like paste. So of the rice was totally mushy, while the bottom was getting burnt fast. Panicking, she added more water, but that just made it worse. The fire was hissing and sputtering now.
She stirred again, hearing her spoon scrape against sothing burnt and stuck to the bottom like tar. Sweat was trickling down her face, half from stress and half from embarrassnt.
No. No. No.
She glanced out the window and saw him. He hadn’t looked up once, just slowly turning the deer at, pretending not to notice the kitchen disaster happening behind him. But the smirk tugging at his lips gave him away.
Then suddenly, he was right behind her, heavy and silent. His voice ca out flat and amused: "You trying to cook dinner or kill ?"
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