“You should get some sleep,” I say. “You’ll be exhausted tomorrow.”
She nods, rubbing her eye. “Can you show me the bedroom?”
I stand, offer my hand. She takes it, small fingers curling into my palm as I guide her toward the hallway. The candlelight follows us in flickers.
The bedroom is simple—bed, dresser, quilt my mom made years back. When Natalie steps inside, she exhales like she’s stepping into a safe place.
“This is perfect,” she murmurs.
“You can settle in,” I say. “I’ll be out here.”
She hesitates in the doorway, turning back toward me.
“Calder?”
“Yeah?”
Her voice goes soft. “Thank you. For…everything tonight.”
I nod, words stuck somewhere between my chest and throat.
She steps inside and closes the door gently.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the wood grain, feeling something slow and warm crawl beneath my ribs.
Then I return to the couch, lie down, and close my eyes.
The storm howls.
The fire cracks.
And even though I’d never admit it out loud, the house feels less empty tonight.
FIVE
NATALIE
I wake up slowly, the way you do when the world feels a little too soft and warm to rush out of. The quilt is thick and heavy over me, the sheets smell like cedar and laundry soap, and for a moment I forget where I am.
Then the wind rattles the window.
The cabin creaks.
Memory snaps into place.
Mountain. Storm. Lumberjack.
I sit up quickly, hair falling into my face, the room tilting just a little from sleep. The power’s still out, judging from the pale gray light filtering through the curtains. The digital clock on the dresser is dark.
My phone says it’s barely past seven.
I stretch and wince. My muscles are sore—not just pleasantly sore, but “slept in a bed that isn’t mine after a six-hour drive and three emotional plot twists” sore. Still, the ache is worth it. I slept. Really slept. Deep and uninterrupted. That almost never happens in clients’ homes.
I slip out of bed and pad quietly to the door, pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders.
I pad my way into the living room and find Calder in the kitchen, back turned, leaning over the stove with a wooden spoon. The fire is going, giving the room a low golden glow. No lights, just firelight and morning.
And him.
