Nope. No way. Not again.
I grab my duffel and shove in jeans, warm sweaters, my fleece pajamas with gingerbread men on them. Lip balm. A hairbrush. Toothbrush. I hesitate over the photo on my nightstand—me and Mom, before everything went sideways—and gently tuck it in too.
My hands shake again, but not as bad.
Because downstairs, waiting like a sentry, is Nate.
He’s big and steady and quiet, and under all that broody lumberjack energy, I know there’s a man who would take a bullet before letting someone lay a finger on me.
Also, his arms. I’m sorry, but they deserve their own zip code. The flannel. The beard. Thevoice.
I grab my favorite sweater—the one that dips just off one shoulder—and smile to myself.
If I’m going into hiding… might as well look a little cute while doing it.
And truth be told, I don’t feel entirely scared anymore. I feel… something else.
Safe.
Seen.
And maybe, just a little bit wanted.
4
Nate
The ride up the mountain is quiet, except for Greta’s humming and the tires crunching over the snow covered roads.
She hums when she’s nervous. I clocked it early. That soft little buzz under her breath like her system’s too overloaded for silence. It’s better than panic, better than shutting down, but it still makes my jaw clench because sheshouldn’thave to be scared.
She glances over as I make the final turn, gravel crunching beneath the tires.
“Definitely off the beaten path,” she says.
“Good,” I grunt.
The cabin sits low beneath the trees, tucked into the pines like it’s been hiding longer than both of us. One chimney. A solid wraparound porch. No neighbors for miles. No cell towers. Just us, the woods, and the occasional bear who’s learned not to mess with me.
Greta slides out of the truck, hugging her coat tighter around her.
“You sure this place isn’t haunted?”
“Only by me.”
She huffs a little laugh. “Comforting.”
I grab her duffel and walk her up the steps. Unlock the door. Step back so she can walk inside first.
“Wow,” she breathes.
The fire’s already going. I lit it before I left for the diner. It throws warm light across the cabin—over the rough-hewn walls, the open kitchen, the bookshelf stuffed with paperbacks I’ll never admit to reading, and the big bed in the back corner that I instantly regret not putting in a separate room.
Greta takes it all in, spinning slowly like she’s cataloging every detail.
“This is… kind of amazing,” she says. “Like, ruggedandcozy. If a lumberjack had a Pinterest.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that a compliment?”
