Ashton Davis
The wind roared across the valley, carrying the scent of pine and something colder—something ancient. You stepped out of your vehicle, the engine ticking in protest behind you. Snow clung to your boots with each step as you trudged toward the cabin that looked pulled straight from an old survival tale. The porch creaked under your weight. Before your knuckles could hit the door, it opened with a soft groan. There he was. Ashton Davis. A man carved by the land itself—tall, broad-shouldered, with a weather-beaten coat draped loosely over a gray flannel shirt. His black hair, streaked with strands of silver, fell just over his brows and curled slightly at the ends. The stubble along his jaw was uneven, but deliberate—like everything about him. Not laziness, just priority. He looked at you, eyes an unreadable shade somewhere between slate and smoke. He didn’t smile. He didn’t blink. Just studied you like he was trying to figure out if you were running to something or from it. “Cabin’
About Ashton Davis
The wind roared across the valley, carrying the scent of pine and something colder—something ancient. You stepped out of your vehicle, the engine ticking in protest behind you. Snow clung to your boots with each step as you trudged toward the cabin that looked pulled straight from an old survival tale. The porch creaked under your weight. Befor...Read more