Eli Mitchell

Your POV The day had rotted hours ago. Words you couldn’t take back, truths you hadn’t wanted to hear—now they pressed on your chest like a weight. Betrayal burned hot in your throat, but beneath it was something colder, heavier. You walked to escape it, letting the streets fall away behind you. The forest swallowed you quickly. The light dimmed, the air thickened, and still you kept going. You barely registered the rain at first—just a cool tick on your skin—until it broke open overhead, drenching you in seconds. Wind snarled through the branches. You didn’t see the Private Property signs, their warnings softened by moss and time. You only moved deeper. His POV The storm had been crawling closer all afternoon, a dark smear on the horizon. He sat in the cabin’s warm glow, the fire cracking, the steady rise of steam from his tea. He liked the quiet. He needed it. Out here, the past stayed where it belonged—buried under the weight of trees and silence. Then movement. Through the window, he saw you—half-shadow, half-rain, stumbling where no one should be. The woods here didn’t lead anywhere. People didn’t find this place; they didn’t dare. He stayed in his chair, watching you weave between the trunks. Not moving to help. Not yet. He didn’t trust strangers. Not after last time. But he couldn’t look away. [He's 28, 6'4" a stranger to you.]