Monday morning brought the first real bite of autumn. Frost silvered the grass around the cabin, and Kai's breath fogged as he split wood before school—axe rising and falling in steady rhythm, the crack of logs echoing through the pines. Marcus watched from the porch with a mug of coffee, nodding approval at the clean splits.
"Keep that edge sharp," he called. "Dull axe is dangerous."
Kai stacked the split pieces, sweat cooling fast on his back. By the time the bus hissed to a stop, he'd showered, changed into clean jeans and a black hoodie, and eaten a quick bowl of oatmeal. The ride down the ridge felt shorter now, familiar.
School blurred into routine. English with Lila: she wore a soft rose-pink blouse tucked into high-waisted dark jeans today, the fabric draping just right over her slender frame. A thin silver necklace rested against her collarbone, drawing his eye more than once. They worked on their project outline—comparing modern voices to classic ones—and she caught him staring again.
"You're doing it again," she murmured, pencil pausing over her notes.
"Can't help it. That color looks good on you."
Her cheeks matched the blouse. "Thanks. I… picked it this morning thinking you might notice."
He smiled slow. "I noticed."
Gym was volleyball again. Sierra showed up in gray high-waisted leggings and a cropped black sports bra under an open flannel shirt, the flannel tied at her waist to show toned abs and the curve of her hips. Her ponytail swung as she jumped for a block, green eyes locking on his across the net.
After class she lingered by the water fountain.
"You're getting better," she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Footwork's smoother."
"Had a good teacher back home."
She leaned against the wall, arms crossed under her chest. "You ever run the trails up on Blackwood Ridge? There's a loop—five miles, killer views."
"Not yet."
"We should go sometime. Test that city stamina."
He let his gaze drop openly—along the long lines of her legs, the way the leggings hugged every curve—then back up. She didn't flinch, just smirked.
"I'd like that."
Lunch brought Em in a fitted olive-green henley that stretched across her full chest and dark skinny jeans with strategic rips at the thighs. She plopped down next to him with a grin.
"Miss me over the weekend?"
"Thought about you once or twice."
"Only twice?" She stole one of his tater tots. "I sang your song three times practicing."
The afternoon dragged until the final bell. Kai caught the early bus back—Marcus had texted that the garage needed an extra hand on a rush job. The auto shop sat on the edge of town: a cinder-block building with two bays, faded sign reading THOMPSON & SONS (Marcus had already ordered the new lettering). An old Ford pickup waited on the lift, and a familiar figure leaned under the hood.
Jasmine Rivera—Jazz—straightened when Kai walked in, wiping her hands on a rag. Nineteen, olive skin glowing under the fluorescent lights, shoulder-length dark curls pulled into a messy bun with a few strands escaping to frame her face. She wore navy coveralls unzipped low enough to reveal a red tank top clinging to generous curves, the fabric smudged with grease but doing nothing to hide her athletic hourglass—36-26-38, easy guess. A small family-crest tattoo peeked on her wrist as she tossed the rag aside.
"You the new help?" she asked, voice carrying a slight accent—Puerto Rican roots, maybe—and a teasing edge.
"Kai. Marcus's son."
"Ah. The city boy." Her brown eyes sparkled with mischief. "He said you know your way around tools."
"Some."
She jerked her head toward the truck. "Good. Transmission fluid's leaking like a sieve. Help me drop the pan?"
They worked side by side for the next two hours. Jazz moved with confidence—ratchet clicking fast, cursing softly in Spanish when a bolt fought back. Kai handed tools, held the light, learned the rhythm. Grease streaked both their arms by the time the pan came down.
"You're not useless," she admitted, bumping his shoulder with hers. "Most new guys just stand there looking pretty."
He glanced over. The coveralls had slipped lower as she worked, tank top stretched tight, a faint sheen of sweat at her collarbone. He didn't hide the stare.
"Trying to guess," he said. "36-26-38?"
Jazz barked a laugh, delighted. "Damn. Close enough—36-26-38 on the dot. You got a tape measure in your eyes or what?"
"Practice," he said again, same line he'd used before. It felt natural now.
She leaned back against the workbench, arms crossed, pushing her chest up just a little. "Well, keep practicing. I don't mind being the subject."
The door to the office opened and Marcus stepped out, wiping his hands.
"Good work today. Jazz, you mind closing up? I gotta run to the parts store before they shut."
"No problem, boss." She saluted with a greasy finger.
Marcus glanced at Kai. "Ride home with Jazz—she's heading ridge way after."
Kai nodded. Marcus left, truck rumbling away.
Jazz locked the bay doors, then turned off the main lights, leaving just the glow over the workbench. She grabbed two sodas from the fridge, tossed him one.
"So," she said, hopping up to sit on the bench, legs swinging. "Chicago, huh? What's a city boy doing out here in the middle of nowhere?"
"New start. Dad inherited this place."
She nodded, sipping her drink. "My family moved here when I was ten. Dad wanted space, Mom wanted quiet. I learned engines to stay busy." She gestured around the shop. "Your dad's fair. Pays good, doesn't treat me like I'm fragile 'cause I'm a girl."
"Smart man."
Jazz studied him. "You quiet or just observing?"
"Both, I guess."
She smiled. "I like quiet. Loud gets old fast."
They talked easy—music (she loved old-school reggaeton and classic rock), food (she claimed to make the best arroz con gandules in the county), family (her little brother was a sophomore at the school). Kai shared bits about Chicago, his mom's cooking, training with Marcus. The conversation flowed until the clock hit six.
"Better head out," she said finally. "I'll drop you."
Her truck was a lifted '98 Chevy, paint faded but engine purring strong. Country radio played low as they wound up the ridge road. Stars were coming out sharp and bright.
She pulled into the cabin driveway, idling.
"Tomorrow after school again?" she asked.
"Yeah. Dad said it's steady work till winter hits."
"Good." She leaned over, close enough he smelled motor oil and something citrus in her hair. "See you then, city boy."
He climbed out. "Night, Jazz."
She grinned and backed out, taillights disappearing down the hill.
Inside, Marcus was at the stove stirring chili.
"How was the garage?"
"Learned a lot. Jazz knows her stuff."
Marcus grunted approval. "Girl's got talent. Treat her right."
They ate on the porch, bowls steaming in the cold. Kai's mind kept drifting—Lila's blush in that pink blouse, Sierra's abs in the gym lights, Em's laugh at lunch, and now Jazz's easy confidence under the hood.
Four different girls. Four different pulls.
He felt that quiet possessiveness stir again, deeper this time. They were starting to notice him back. Really notice.
And he liked it.
After dinner they trained—pad work in the yard, Muay Thai combos until his shins ached and breath burned. Marcus called it at nine.
"Sleep," he said. "Busy week ahead."
Kai showered off the day's sweat and grease, then dropped into bed. The cabin creaked around him, wind whispering in the pines.
Tomorrow: school, girls changing outfits just to catch his eye, more work with Jazz.
And somewhere out in the dark woods, those poacher tracks people kept mentioning.
He closed his eyes.
Life was getting complicated.
He didn't mind one bit.