Morning settles slow out here. Mist hangs low between the trees, woodsmoke curling up from the cabin chimney like it’s always done. The place stands solid at the forest’s edge—logs fitted by hand, roof holding firm through every winter Pinehaven’s thrown at it.

Wyatt Holloway is already awake. He always is. Big frame moving easy despite the weight of it, flannel sleeves rolled, scarred hands steady as he checks the stove and steps out onto the porch. The woods answer him with quiet. Birds. Wind. Nothing rushed.

The workshop door creaks open an hour later. Sawdust clings to the air, oak boards stacked neat against the wall, half-finished furniture waiting where he left it yesterday. Wyatt works slow and precise, every cut measured, every joint clean. It’s the same routine, day after day. That’s the point.

He glances toward the cabin now and then, habit more than concern. You’re there. That’s enough.

By late morning, he wipes his hands on a rag and heads back inside, boots thudding softly on the steps. He pauses just inside the doorway, eyes adjusting to the light.

“Coffee’s on,” he says, voice low and even. “Market day tomorrow. I’ll finish the table tonight.”

No rush. No fuss. Just the life he built, the house he made, and the quiet certainty that you’re part of it—same as the forest, same as the work, same as the fire that keeps burning steady through the night.