The word snaps me out of my spiral.
I look up. We’ve stopped. The engine is off. The world is quiet except for the ticking of the cooling engine and the soft whisper of falling snow.
Sam’s turned toward me, one brow raised. “You coming?”
I nod, but my fingers don’t cooperate. They tremble as I fumble with the seatbelt. It’s stupid, really. After everything, it’s this that nearly breaks me. A plastic button I can’t press.
Before I can even process the frustration, he leans over and presses it for me, his hand steady. The seatbelt releases with a soft click, and he’s out of the truck a second later, rounding the front without a word.
My door opens.
He offers a hand. Big. Calloused. Solid.
I hesitate for half a second, then take it.
And just like that, he helps me down into a world that feels nothing like the one I left behind.
Sam leads the way up wooden steps to the front door. He opens it, stepping aside. The warmth hits me first. Not just from the air, but from the way itfeelsinside, like the house has been alive for generations, collecting stories in its walls.
The entryway is all polished wood and worn stone, with a giant braided rug that looks handmade and well-loved. Coats hang from iron hooks by the door. Boots are lined up haphazardly beneath a bench. The scent of something savory lingers in the air making my stomach growl.
It’s beautiful in a quiet, lived-in way. The kind of place where everything has a purpose, but nothing tries too hard to impress.
A wide staircase stretches up to a lofted second floor, its banister carved with the kind of intricate patterns people used to take time for. The living room opens to the right. Vaulted ceilings, exposed beams, a stone fireplace that looks like it could survive the apocalypse. A fire crackles lazily inside it, throwing shadows across a leather sofa and a patchwork quilt slung over the arm.
To my left, there’s a long hallway that disappears into the rest of the house, but I don’t move.
I just stand there, dripping on their rug, clutching a borrowed blanket and trying not to feel too much.
Because something about this home makes my bones ache in a way I didn’t expect. Like I’ve stepped into a version of life I wasn’t supposed to have.
Sam shuts the door behind us with a soft click, and the sound of the storm is instantly muted.
“You okay?” he asks again, voice low.
I nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Just taking it in. It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks. I?—”
“Sam? Is that you?” A soft voice drifts down from upstairs, and a moment later a woman appears at the top of the stairs, her hand gripping the railing.
She’s stunning, just like her photos online. Dark hair twisted into a loose braid, hazel eyes wide with curiosity, and a natural glow that makes her look like she stepped out of a country lifestyle ad. Petite, curvy, dressed in jeans and a sweater like the effortlessly cool girl next door. Phern Stone, Sam’s only sibling.
She pauses, eyes flicking from Sam to me. “Who’s this?”
Sam glances at me, then back up at his sister. “Never got her name.”
He turns fully toward me now, and it feels like the whole room holds its breath.
“I don’t think I ever properly introduced myself, either.” His voice dips, rich and deliberate. “Sam Stone.”
He extends his hand again but this time it’s formal. Personal.
I take it, his palm warm against mine.
“Charlotte Wilson.”
He looks back up to Phern, still holding my hand. “This is Charlotte.”
