No.She stood abruptly, crossing to the window. Outside, the snow was falling heavier again, swirling in restless patterns. Somewhere beyond the white haze, Soren was probably fixing a boiler or clearing a path, unbothered by the storm she’d left behind in Nia’s chest.
Nia told herself she didn’t care. She told herself she’d already closed that door.
But when she caught her reflection in the glass—green eyes a little too bright, mouth a little too soft—she saw the lie for what it was.
She pressed her fingers to the cold pane, grounding herself in the chill. “You are not doing this,” she whispered. “You arenotdoing this again.”
Outside, the wind howled, and the snow kept falling, stubborn as the pull she refused to name.
By noon, hunger and restlessness drove Nia downstairs. The dining room of the Hawthorne Lodge was half-empty, most guests hiding in their rooms or clustered near the fire. A pine garland looped over the mantel; faint holiday music murmuredfrom hidden speakers, the kind that was meant to be soothing but only made her feel more aware of her own agitation.
She almost turned around when she sawher.
Soren sat at a table near the window, sleeves rolled up, a half-eaten sandwich beside a steaming mug of coffee. Snow light spilled through the glass, touching her hair with silver. She looked up at Nia’s movement, and that slow, easy smile curved her mouth.
“Doc,” Soren said, leaning back in her chair. “Didn’t think I’d see you brave the locals.”
Nia froze for half a second before finding her voice. “I was hungry.” She meant it to sound neutral. It came out defensive.
“Then come eat,” Soren said, gesturing to the chair across from her. “Unless you’re planning on glaring at me from over there.”
“I wasn’t planning on either.” Nia hesitated, then sighed. The other tables would have felt awkward, and the idea of retreating upstairs like a sulking teenager irritated her even more. She crossed the room and sat, smoothing her napkin into her lap. “Fine. Lunch.”
Soren’s grin softened. “See? We can be civilized.”
A waitress appeared, set down a menu, and Nia ordered soup she barely wanted. For a minute they ate in silence. The storm outside pressed against the windows, turning the world white again. Inside, the air smelled of roasted vegetables and coffee. Every now and then, Nia felt Soren’s gaze flick to her—curious, not intrusive.
“You look like you lost a fight,” Soren said finally.
Nia’s spoon paused halfway to her mouth. “Excuse me?”
“Not physically,” Soren said quickly, smiling. “You’ve just got that look—like the world’s gone and changed the rules without telling you.”
Nia set the spoon down carefully. “Maybe it has.”
Soren tilted her head. “You want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
The quiet invitation was infuriatingly gentle. Nia should have shut it down. Instead, something in her chest loosened. Maybe it was the storm, maybe the fatigue, maybe the way Soren’s eyes stayed steady on hers, patient in a way no one else ever was.
“My wife—ex-wife—Julia,” she said before she could stop herself.
Soren didn’t blink. “Okay.”
“We were together twelve years.” Nia stared at the pattern in her soup. “We built a life that looked perfect from the outside. Dual careers, house in Phoenix Ridge, dinner parties, conference travel. We barely saw each other, but it worked. Until it didn’t.”
Soren folded her hands on the table, listening without interrupting.
“She told me she’d met someone,” Nia continued. “Another surgeon. Younger. Charming. I think she expected me to fight for her. I didn’t.” A bitter laugh slipped out. “I congratulated her on her efficiency.”
“That sounds rough,” Soren said quietly.
“It was humiliating,” Nia admitted, surprised by the honesty spilling from her. “I was so focused on keeping everything together that I didn’t even notice it was already broken.”
Soren’s expression softened. “That’s not on you.”
