It melts me. “Thought this challenge would get me past my fear. That’s thepointof it, really.”
“That or fame?” he asks, glancing at my phone. His voice is flat as he turns, not expecting an answer.
I head towards the bedroom, heart racing. Retrieving the gun from the bathroom, I place it under my pillow, taking the side furthest from the window and the storm. Lying down, I cover my head with the blanket, squeeze my eyes shut, pretend I’m not losing my mind.
The bed jostles when Bear jumps on top, big paws weighing down the comforter. Denver enters quietly, floorboards squeaking. Soft, precise sounds of a nightly ritual.
I exhale, heart pumping, breath racing as I slide a hand beneath the pillow, clutching cool steel. Lights out. The bed shifts once, then settles.
Later, in the softening gusts of the receding storm, I lie awake staring at the log ceiling. The steady sound of his breathing anchors me, deep and even. If peace had a sound, it would breathe just like that.
A dog sighs somewhere between us.
Maybe solitude doesn’t have to be lonely.
Chapter
Five
DENVER
Dawn creeps in slow through the curtains, pale gold seeping across the cabin’s rough-hewn walls. The fire’s gone to ash, but the room still holds its heat.
I smell it first. Pine, soap, smoke, threaded with something sweeter, honey. Out of place, too sweet for this cabin or me. But I like it all the same.
She’s curled on her side, one hand tucked beneath her flushed cheek, hair spilled like dark ink across my pillow. My flannel drowns her—sleeves too long, collar slipping just enough to show the slope of her shoulder.
Bear’s stretched between us like a damn chaperone, tail twitching with every breath.
I tell myself I’m checking to make sure she’s breathing, not just staring.
Truth is, I’d forgotten what peace looks like until right now.
The storm’s passed, but the world outside still drips and sighs. I slip out of bed, careful not to wake her. Slide into my prosthetic and stand. Floorboards creak anyway; she murmurs, shifts, settles again. Something tightens in my chest.
Coffee. Distraction. That’s what I need.
I stoke the fire, set the kettle on. The smell of wood smoke and cedar fills the air—home, routine, safety. All the things I thought I wanted alone.
Then she appears in the doorway, wrapped in a fur blanket, hair a wild halo from sleep. Barefoot, blinking. I turn away, try to pull myself together.
“Mornin’,” I manage, voice rough.
“Is it?” she murmurs, yawning. “Feels like a dream.”
Her smile wrecks me more than last night’s wind ever could.
“Coffee?”
She nods, clutching the blanket tighter. “Please. And maybe a new plan for the day that doesn’t involve exploding pipes.”
I snort. “Ambitious. Let’s start with breakfast, then see if your cabin survived.”
“Guess that depends on who’s cooking.”
I arch a brow. “You volunteering?”
“Maybe,” she says, grin growing, sunlight itself in human form.
