Soren smiled faintly, leaning her hip against the counter. She hadn’t expected to care if she ever saw her again. She was good at letting things go—jobs, storms, people passing through town. But Nia had left an ache in her chest that no amount of casual could explain away.
She tried to picture Nia now, in that tidy hotel room—probably awake already, hair brushed back into order, pretending last night hadn’t happened. Pretending Soren hadn’t fucked her perfection away.
The thought stung.
She carried her mug to the window again and pressed her palm to the cold glass. Somewhere beyond the trees, Hawthorne Lake’s lights would still be buried under the storm. The hospital might even be closed, the lodge half-snowed in.
Which meant Nia was still here. There was no way she would be getting to the airport.
Soren’s reflection in the glass met her gaze—hair a mess, circles under her eyes, but a spark there she hadn’t seen in a long time.
“Yeah,” she murmured to herself, a rueful grin spreading. “You’re in trouble, Stevenson.”
Outside, the snow kept falling. The mountain was quiet, but her mind wasn’t. All she could think about was Nia’s voice, low and unguarded, whispering her name like a secret she hadn’t meant to give away.
Her phone buzzed against the counter, shattering the quiet.
Soren blinked, set her mug down, and picked it up. The screen flashedHawthorne Lodge.
“Stevenson Repairs,” she answered, voice still rough with sleep.
“Morning, Soren,” came the reception girl, Michelle’s familiar drawl. “Sorry to bother you early, but the lodge took a hit in the storm. Power’s patchy, the boiler’s acting up, and the owner’s panicking. You free?”
Soren’s pulse jumped before her common sense could catch up.
The lodge.Nia’s lodge.
She cleared her throat, trying to sound casual. “Yeah, I can be there in twenty. Roads passable?”
“Barely. Bring chains. And coffee if you’ve got extra.”
“On it.”
When the call ended, Soren stared at the phone for a beat, the faintest grin spreading across her face.
“Well,” she murmured, setting her mug aside, “guess fate’s on my side for once.”
She pulled on her boots and jacket, grabbed her toolbox from beside the door, and stepped out into the snow. The cold bit at her cheeks, the kind of cold that meant life, not retreat. For the first time since she’d opened her eyes that morning, her chest felt lighter.
She was going to see Nia again.
And this time, she promised herself, she wouldn’t run.
By the time Soren’s truck crunched into the parking lot of the Hawthorne Lodge, the world had turned into a watercolor of white and gray. The tires hissed over packed snow, the wipers clicking against sleet that refused to quit. The lodge stood half-buried, icicles hanging like teeth from the roofline. She killed the engine, grabbed her toolbox, and stomped her boots free of snow before heading inside.
The lobby smelled faintly of burnt coffee and cold metal—a sign that the heating system was doing its best but losing. The owner, Mr. Ellis, met her near the fireplace, red-nosed and relieved.
“Morning, Stevenson! You’re a miracle. Pipes froze again in the east wing, and the boiler’s acting up.”
Soren set the box down, flexing her fingers. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
He led her toward the back corridor, explaining in bursts, words puffing white in the chilly air. The storm had knocked the power grid all night. Temporary generators kept the lights on, but the hot water system was struggling.
They rounded the corner—and Dr. Nia South stood there, arms crossed, every line of her body drawn tight as a scalpel.
She wore a sleek black coat, dark hair pulled back into a severe twist, green eyes sharp and unreadable. The sight of her hit Soren like stepping into cold water—shock first, ache after.
“Morning, Doc,” she said, tone light, cautious.
