I'm standing in the romance section of The Book Nook, tucked into the corner by the window where the afternoon light filters through in golden bands. The book in my hands is a debut novel—some author I've never heard of who managed to get their story out into the world. The prose is good. Not perfect, but honest. Raw in the way first novels tend to be, like the author bled onto the page and hoped someone would understand.
I understand it more than I want to admit.
Is this even worth pursuing? This dream of writing? Of putting words down and hoping they mean something to someone other than yourself?
The question sits heavy in my chest, familiar and uncomfortable.
I close the book carefully, running my thumb over the embossed title on the cover. Someone believed in this story enough to publish it. Someone read these words and thought they mattered.
Maybe someday someone will believe in mine too.
I slide the book back onto the shelf, positioning it so the spine is perfectly aligned with the others. The bookshop smells like old paper and something sweet—cinnamon, maybe peppermint—mixing with the leather of worn bindings and the faint vanilla from candles someone's been burning despite what I'm guessing are strict no-open-flame policies.
It's a good smell.Comforting.The kind of place that makes you want to stay awhile.
I'm grateful for the break, honestly.
The ranch has been chaos this past week—getting the horses settled up north where the weather won't be as brutal when the real cold hits. December in Oakridge Hollow can be beautiful, but it can also be merciless. The horses are safer in the northern pastures, closer to the sheltered barns, protected from the worst of the winter winds.
It's good work. Necessary work. The kind of thing that keeps my hands busy and my mind occupied.
But it doesn't stop the heaviness that settles in my chest this time of year.
Seasonal depression.
That's what the therapist I saw exactly once called it.
Like giving it a name would make it easier to handle.
Winter is always hard for me. Not because of the work—there's actually less of it compared to summer, when the ranch demands everything from sunup to sundown.No, it's the season itself.The way the days get shorter and the darkness lingers. The way the cold seeps into your bones no matter how many layers you wear. The reality of witnessing everyone around youseeming to light up with holiday cheer while you're just trying to make it through another day without feeling like you're drowning.
I try to ignore it. Push it down.
To focus on the positive things—the snow that makes everything look clean and new, the quiet peace of winter mornings, the way the ranch looks like a Christmas card when frost covers everything.
But ignoring it doesn't make it go away.
And you can't talk about it. Not when Nash is dealing with his own demons and Theo barely sleeps through the night without waking up from nightmares.
Nash. My pack brother, my best friend, the man who's spent the last two years burying himself in engine grease and motorcycle parts like he can rebuild what he lost. He's in his garage right now, probably, lost in the rhythm of fixing cars while his mind drifts back to who he used to be. Riding bikes down summer roads with the wind in his face and freedom in his veins.
Living the life that being part of a motorcycle club gave him—the brotherhood, the purpose, the feeling of belonging to something bigger than yourself.
Until it all burst.
The club fell apart and Nash walked away with scars that don't show on the surface.
He doesn't talk about it much. Just works on bikes he'll never ride and cars that belong to other people, fixing things because it's the only way he knows how to feel useful anymore.
I can't add my melancholy to his burden. He's carrying enough already.
And then there's Theo.
Ex-military, the best friend anyone could ask for, and someone who deals with his own set of nightmares that havenothing to do with the season and everything to do with the things he saw overseas.
The things he had to do.
The things that still chase him in the dark.
