I ease it out without meaning to, the way you open a drawer that isn’t yours and only realize once it’s done.
The paper is cream colored, thick, the ink curling in gentle loops across the page. It doesn’t look like a man’s handwriting.
Thank you for everything. For the quiet. For reminding me what it feels like to be seen. I’ll never forget this place, or you.
A tiny pressed violet is taped to the corner, its edges browned but still intact. Its petals are delicate. Intimate.
I fold it back in half and place it where I found it, careful not to wrinkle the paper. My fingertips tingle, cold despite the heat that radiates from the fire behind me.
Maybe it was from a friend. Maybe someone stayed here before me and felt something similar. Maybe Jax is just the kind of man who gives people space to breathe. And maybe I mistook that for something rare. A sour knot forms in my stomach; he said he’d never brought anyone here before.
A sound catches in the back of my throat before I swallow it down.
I rise slowly, the weight of it settling behind my ribs. My sweater slips from the hook. I let it fall. His back is turned to me, listening to something he’s streaming on his phone. He hums along to the music, low and off-key, and it’s the most human sound I’ve ever heard. The kind that makes you want to take off your coat and stay awhile.
But I can’t unsee the words.I’ll never forget this place, or you.
I don’t know if I’m the memory or the replacement.
I turn back toward the living room, watching him move through his own space like nothing has changed. Like I didn’t just unravel a little.
He sees me and smiles. Just a soft lift at the corner of his mouth, and something in me lurches toward it. There’s no calculation in his expression, no awareness of the way it knocks the breath from my chest. He just looks at me like I’m part of the room now, like I’ve always been here, like I belong. It should feel like comfort, but an ache twists beneath it that I can’t name, sharp and quiet as a splinter.
I smile back and hope it holds. I hope he doesn’t see the way my fingers twitch at my sides, restless now, or the way I shift my weight like I’m trying to stay grounded when I’m already drifting. He crosses the room to bank the fire, kneeling in front of the hearth as sparks scatter up into the flue. His shoulders stretch his sweater, and for a moment, I just stand there by the bench, memorizing the shape of him in this light.
I tell him I’m going to bed, and he rises, brushing soot from his palms. He kisses my cheek, the barest warmth of his lips grazing my skin, and my breath catches for half a second too long. I don’t lean in. I don’t pull away. I just let it happen and pretend I don’t feel like I’m breaking apart.
His bedroom is still wrapped in golden lamplight, the quilt turned down, the pillow fluffed. There are thoughtful touches in every corner. I ease the door shut behind me and lean against itfor a moment, eyes closed, listening to the soft murmur of him moving in the kitchen, the clink of the kettle, the creak of the floorboards under his weight. Each sound feels like something I already miss.
I crawl into bed and pull the quilt up to my chest, but the warmth doesn’t reach the hollow forming beneath my ribs. My mind keeps circling the note, the flower, the looping, female handwriting. Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it was from someone passing through, someone who needed what I needed and left a thank-you behind. But the way it was folded, the care of it, the intimacy, the way he saved it; that doesn’t feel like nothing. I can’t get past his lie that he’d never brought anyone here before me.
I decide he’s just the kind of man who rescues people. He gives them safety for a little while, makes them feel seen, then lets them go when the storm clears. Maybe I was never supposed to be more than that. I could be just another woman who needed something she didn’t know how to ask for, another story he let come to an end.
I shut off the lamp and pull the blanket tighter around me. In the dark, everything feels louder. The wind scrapes against the windows, the fireplace crackles down the hall, the silence roars where I want his voice. I tell myself I’m overthinking, that I’m tired, and morning will make it better.
Yet, I can feel it deep in the place I don’t talk about. The roads will be clear tomorrow, and I’m not sure he’ll ask me to stay.
Chapter six
Jax
Wrong. Everything's wrong.
I know before I'm fully awake. The cabin's too quiet. The air feels different. It’s empty in a way that makes my chest tighten before my brain catches up.
I walk into the bedroom. Cold sheets. Not just an empty bed. She's been gone a while.
I'm up and moving, pulse hammering. Checking the bathroom. Kitchen. Porch. She's not here. "Claire?" My voice echoes back, mocking.
No boots by the door. No sketchbook on the table. No mug half filled with tea. Her camera bag is gone. The flannel shirt she was wearing last night is gone. Every trace of her, gone.
The panic forms a knot in my chest. I can't breathe. Can't think. There’s just this roaring certainty that I've fucked up the best thing that's ever happened to me.
I stand in the middle of the living room, my hands clenched and useless at my sides. I look at the door like it might give me an explanation, but all it offers is silence. She didn’t leave a note. No goodbye. No see you soon.
She’s just gone.
It shouldn’t feel like something vital’s been torn out of me and left the place hollow.
