“I brought you water,” she says.
Sure enough—when I glance over, she’s stepping carefully onto the porch, holding a glass in both hands. The blanket is wrapped around her shoulders like a cape.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” I say.
“And yet, here I am.”
She hands me the glass. Our fingers brush, and the distraction I was searching for evaporates instantly.
I move to create more space, but she leans back on the railing beside the chopping block, watching me with this open, curious expression that makes it harder to breathe.
“You’re very good at that,” she says, nodding at the axe.
“It’s wood,” I say. “It doesn’t talk back.”
“Lucky wood.”
I choke.
Her face turns red. “Oh my god. I didn’t mean—well, I didn’tnotmean—but I didn’t.” Her eyes widen. “Forget I spoke.”
Before I can respond—before I can ruin this by saying something equally unhelpful—she shifts topics.
“So. What made you move up here in the first place?”
I set another log on the stump. “Didn’t move so much as return.”
“Return?”
“This was my dad’s land. We worked it together.”
Her voice softens. “You said he passed when you were younger?”
I nod. Bring the axe down again. The log splits and falls to the side.
After a moment, she asks carefully, “Was being up here with him a good thing?”
“It was the best thing,” I say before I can temper it. “He liked quiet. Liked working with his hands. Liked the mountain. Guess I got that from him.”
“And after he was gone?”
I sink the axe deeper into the stump, leaning on the handle. “After that, nothing felt right. Not the house down in town. Not the holidays. Not people trying to pretend things weren’t broken.”
I swallow past a lump in my throat. “Up here, I didn’t have to pretend.”
A long moment passes.
When she speaks again, her voice is soft but sure. “You didn’t isolate yourself because you didn’t care, Calder. You isolated yourself because you felt too much.”
I turn to her, chest tight. “You don’t know that.”
“I absolutely do,” she says. “You’re a caretaker. That kind of person never walks away unless they’re hurting.”
My jaw works, but nothing comes out.
She steps closer—not touching, but close enough the warmth from her body reaches me even through the cold.
“You don’t have to carry all of it yourself,” she says. “Not this year.”
