Mine,it growls.
I grip the edge of the coffee table until the wood creaks. “Not happening,” I grind out.
The beast answers with a rumble of disagreement.
It remembers everything, of course—the way she’d trembled for me, trusted me, wanted me before I broke her heart.
It knows her virgin scent—how she’s remained untouched these five long years, almost like she was saving herself for me.
Snow lashes the window, the fire spits. I lean back and close my eyes, and let her fill my head—her warmth, her stubbornness, the soft sound of her laugh.
Wanting her never stopped.
It only went quiet for a while.
And tonight, with her scent still hanging in the air, I know one thing for sure:
I found her again. And this time, I’m not losing her.
5
Lila
Iwake to sunlight slanting through the loft curtains. For a moment, I lie perfectly still, listening to the creaks of the cabin and pretending the tightness in my chest is just from sleeping stiffly.
Then a wet nose presses against my cheek and a heavy paw lands squarely on my stomach.
“Okay, okay.” I push the dog off, laughing despite myself. Another joins in, tail thumping against the bedframe. How the heck did they get up those steep steps? Somewhere in the rafters, the parrot squawks,“Breakfast!... breakfast!… breakfast!”like a tiny drill sergeant. Outside, I swear I can hear the ponies whinnying.
So much for the haven of peace that Heather promised.
I sit up, rub my eyes, pull the tiny red-and-white checkered curtain aside. The sky is patchy blue and sunlight glints off the fresh snow, bright enough to hurt.
Christmas Eve.
The words slip into my mind before I can stop them.
Once upon a time it meant cinnamon rolls in the oven, old carols on the radio, my parents slow-dancing in the kitchen, pretending everything was going to be fine this year.
It hasn’t felt like that in a long, long time.
Still, there’s something about being here with all the animals, safe from the rest of the world.
I throw backthe covers and swing my legs out of bed, careful not to step on any tails. Down in the living area, the fire’s burned low, but the cabin has held onto its warmth.
The place is a mess of muddy pawprints and scattered boots, but it’s lived-in, comforting. A different world from my mother’s house, where everything is curated and expensive and breakable.
My gaze drifts to the empty windowsill. A thought nudges at me.
Holt’s comment from last night flashes up—something about the place “looking better with Christmas decorations.” I’d rolled my eyes at him then.
Still… he wasn’t wrong.
If I’m going to be stuck here, I might as well make it feel like Christmas.
I picture a small tree by the fire, some fairy lights, maybe a few ornaments. The picture puts a little warmth in my chest—quiet, tentative, the kind that makes me go still so I don’t scare it off.
And—of course—that’s exactly when last night surfaces.
