He looked up then, and something in his expression made her heart stutter. Vulnerability mixed with a quiet pride that he seemed almost afraid to acknowledge.
“I know what it’s like to be lost.” He shrugged.
The kettle whistled, and she busied herself with preparing the tea, needing a moment to collect herself. She handed him a steaming mug and nodded toward the back porch. “Want to sit outside? I’ll grab a blanket.”
They settled into the wooden chairs her father had placed on the small covered porch years ago. She covered them both with the blanket. The snow was falling again, fat flakes drifting lazily from the night sky. The world felt hushed, as if holding its breath.
She cradled her mug between her palms. “You’ve been avoiding me since that note.”
He didn’t deny it. He stared out at the snow-covered yard, his profile illuminated by the porch light. “Thought it might be easier. For everyone.”
“Easier isn’t always better.” She took a sip of her tea, letting the warmth spread through her. “I’ve been doing easier for fifteen years. Running away from this town, from my dad, from anything that might hurt. Look where it got me.”
He turned to her then, his eyes searching her face. “Where did it get you?”
“Burned out. Alone. Having panic attacks in supply closets.” She gave a humorless laugh. “I was so busy proving I was fine that I didn’t notice I was falling apart.”
He nodded slowly. “I get that. Prison teaches you to hide any weakness. I got so good at it I almost forgot who I was underneath.”
The admission hung between them, delicate as the snowflakes falling beyond the porch roof.
“I’m sorry about that note. People can be cruel.”
“People can be scared,” he corrected gently. “Fear makes us do ugly things sometimes. Fear of the unknown. Of anything being different than what we’re used to. Fear of change.”
She understood the fear of change. She was right there, standing on the edge, not knowing which direction to take. Annie’s half-attempt to ask her to stay through Christmas and help with the cafe almost looked tempting. But she was a nurse, not a retail clerk or a barista.
She looked at him and sighed. “I’m afraid of change. I just don’t know what to do next. Dad and I are starting to work things out, and it seems wrong to leave when we are. But I have a job to get back to in Denver.” Kind of. “But there’s still so much left unsaid between Dad and me.”
He set his mug down on the small table beside him. “It was the grief, Tessa. Your dad trying to handle his grief. Grief does strange things to people. Makes them shut down when they should open up.” He looked directly at her. “Makes them run when they should stay.”
She studied him in the soft light. The strong line of his jaw, the careful way he held himself, as if always aware of the space he occupied. She’d judged him so harshly when she first arrived, assuming the worst based on a label. Now she couldn’t imagine the house without him.
“I’m sorry I was so cold when I first got here,” she said. “I was wrong about you.”
“You were protecting your father. I respect that.”
“Still. I should have given you a chance.”
He looked at her directly then, his gaze steady. “We’re both pretty good at keeping people at a distance, aren’t we?”
The observation hit close to home. Too close. She’d built walls so high around herself that sometimes she forgot what it felt like to let anyone in. Her colleagues respected her, but did any of them really know her? When was the last time she’d let herself be vulnerable with another person?
“I think I forgot how to let people in,” she admitted. “After Mom died, Dad shut down, and I learned that depending on others just leads to disappointment. So I became self-sufficient. The reliable one. The one who never needed help.”
“Until you did.” It wasn’t a question.
Tessa nodded, feeling the sting of tears. “The panic attacks started about six months ago. Small things at first. Heart racing during a difficult case. Trouble catching my breath in the ambulance bay. Then one day, a patient came in, a car accident victim. Young woman, dark hair like my mom’s.” She swallowed hard. “I froze. Completely froze. Had to lock myself in a supply closet until I could breathe again.”
He didn’t interrupt, didn’t try to comfort her with empty platitudes. He just listened, his presence steady and grounding.
She gave a bitter laugh. “Fifteen years of running from my grief, and it finally caught up with me.”
“That’s the thing about the past. It always finds you eventually,” he said softly.
They sat in silence for a moment, watching the snow fall. She felt strangely peaceful, as if sharing her burden had lightened it somehow.
He stretched out his long legs, finally speaking, “I know I withdrew after that note appeared. Old habits. When people look at me like I’m dangerous, it’s easier to disappear than to fight it.”
