No one laughed. Cole finally slid back into his seat, jaw flexing as he tried to find the thread of the meal again.
Ethan wanted to say something, anything, but nothing seemed big enough to patch the moment. Instead, he reached for the bread basket and nudged it toward Cole. Small gesture, but it broke the spell.
Cole took a slice, tore off a chunk, and finally looked up. His eyes met Ethan’s, blue and ragged. For a second, Ethan thought he saw gratitude—or maybe just the reflection of his own want, twisted and raw.
Across the table, Harper leaned in and said, “You know, if anyone needs to talk about their daddy issues, now’s the time.” She raised her glass. “To imperfect families.”
Riley snorted, lifted his own. “To surviving them.”
Ethan followed, and even Jack managed a reluctant raise. Cole looked at the toast, then at the group, and—after a long pause—clinked his glass softly against Harper’s.
The mood didn’t recover fully, but it cracked open enough for conversation to resume. Laughter returned, cautious but real. They fell back into stories—horse disasters, near-misses on the trail, life in general.
Cole didn’t say much the rest of the meal, but when the group stood to leave, Ethan noticed the man’s hand brush his own in the shuffle for jackets. The touch was brief and left Ethan’s skin hot the rest of the night.
He wondered how it would feel if someone touched him and didn’t let go.
By the time dessert landed—a mountain of huckleberry pie with vanilla ice cream liquefying at the edges—the group had worked through three bottles of Malbec and at least two hours’ worth of various stories, most of them heavily embellished. Ethan felt loose for the first time in years, part of a pack instead of a lone operator. Even Cole seemed lighter, shoulders less loaded, the lines of his face softer under the waning lamplight.
Then the world shifted again, the kind of left turn you didn’t see until the air itself told you to run.
It started with a shout in the kitchen, high and urgent, followed by the unmistakable whump of a grease fire catching. Smoke poured through the service window, oily and thick, followed by a blast of heat that sent the candles on the tables guttering.
For half a second, nobody moved. Then all hell broke loose.
Jack sprang up, nearly upending the table, and scanned for a fire extinguisher with Wall Street intensity. “There—by the bar!” he yelled, vaulting a chair like it was a hedge fund intern. Riley went straight into action mode, moving guests away from the kitchen door with the kind of authority that made you believe he’d done this before. Harper corralled the staff, her voice calm, getting them to safety before any could panic.
Cole and Ethan reacted in unison. Cole made for the swinging doors, eyes narrowed, Ethan right behind. Inside the kitchen, orange tongues clawed up the side of a battered steel fryer, flames doubling every second. A teenage line cook stood frozen by the prep station, spatula in one hand, jaw slack.
Cole grabbed a wet towel, snapped it at the kid’s shoulder. “Get back. Go.” The order was absolute.
Ethan went for the emergency cutoff, smacking the red button with his palm. The fryers whined down, but the fire kept gorging itself on pooled oil and old breadcrumbs. Without thinking, he shouldered past Cole, yanked a heavy sheet pan off a rack, and slammed it over the source of the flames. The burst of smoke was instant, savage, and for a second Ethan couldn’t see.
Cole moved in from the side, grabbed a second pan and shrouded the neighboring fryer before the fire could jump. The heat was ridiculous, suffocating, and made Ethan’s eyes water uncontrollably.
In the distance, Jack arrived with the fire extinguisher, hands shaking but eyes sharp. “Move!” he yelled, popping the pin and aiming low. The powder coated the area in a chemical snowstorm, cutting the flames to nothing but a stinking mess.
Harper poked her head in, Riley behind her, and surveyed the damage. “Ten points for teamwork,” she said, voice dry as ever.
Cole wiped a sleeve across his face, stared at Ethan with an intensity that burned hotter than the fryer. “You good?”
Ethan coughed, tried to laugh, then nodded. His hands were shaking and he wasn’t sure if it was adrenaline or the aftershock of standing this close to Cole, working in perfect, dangerous sync. He wanted to say something but the words jammed up behind his teeth.
They stumbled out to the main lodge. Jack was already telling the story, hands wide, painting himself as the star of the night. Riley was in the corner, comforting a staffer who’d gone ghost-white.
Harper found a bottle of bourbon on the bar and poured five neat shots. She set them out in a row, one for each of the group. “To not dying,” she said.
They drank in a single, burning swallow. The tension bled out, replaced by laughter, louder and more ragged than before. They recounted the fire from every possible angle, each time upping the drama.
Ethan tried to tune out the afterimages: Cole’s body pressed against his, the heat, the smell of sweat and danger.
By the time the plates were cleared, the smoke had thinned and the staff had resumed business like nothing had ever gone wrong. The group was reassembled at the table, looser now, limbs splayed, voices easy. Harper lounged with a leg slung over the arm of her chair, Riley resting his chin in his palm, Jack finally off his laptop.
They had just gotten to the part of the story where Harper compared the kitchen fire to her last relationship when the window rattled with a sudden clang—hoofbeats, desperate and fast, and a shout from the direction of the stable yard.
Cole’s head snapped up. He was out of his chair before anyone else registered the noise.
Ethan followed, half by instinct, barely feeling the chill as he shoved through the lodge doors. The night outside was clear and sharp, the moon a silver blade. Down the hill, a horse—one of the draft crosses—barreled along the split-rail fence, eyes wild, nostrils flaring steam. A couple of ranch hands sprinted after, boots sliding on icy gravel.
