Not because she was detoxing. But because for the first time in years, she didn't want to escape to somewhere else. She wanted to stay here . In the steam rising from a pan. In the weight of a stranger's quiet gaze.

A man was splitting firewood. But not like any groundskeeper she'd ever seen. He was shirtless, his skin the color of rain-darkened bark, every muscle moving in deliberate, hydraulic sequence. Dark hair clung to his brow. His jaw was set with a concentration that had nothing to do with mindfulness and everything to do with physics. When the axe bit through the log— crack —a pulse of something hot and utterly non-Zen shot through Veronica's chest.

"I prefer my vegetables with some aggression. Roasted. Maybe charred."

"Then why are you breathing like you ran from something?"

"Whatever the forest gives me. And maybe some steak I have hidden in a freezer Bodhi doesn't know about."

A low, rhythmic grunt. A thud of weight against wood.

And when he finally turned, a plate in each hand, and looked at her— really looked, past the armor and the itinerary and the carefully curated life—Veronica realized she hadn't thought about her phone once.

Veronica should have said no. Should have cited the retreat's schedule, the "commitment to presence," the thousand-dollar-a-night fee she was wasting. Instead, she heard herself say: "What are we eating?"