And I think again about how quiet this place usually is. How empty.
I only bought this place a month ago. Still slowly moving in, still getting used to having my own space after twenty-six years of living with my parents. I loved it there—love them, love the chaos, love that there was always someone to talk to. But it was time. A man needs his own place eventually.
And I do love it here. The quiet. The privacy. A place that’s just mine.
But nights like this make me wonder if I was running from something I actually needed.
Around eight, the wind picks up hard enough to rattle the windows. We all turn to look.
“Fuck,” Milo mutters.
The snow isn’t just falling anymore. It’s driving sideways, thick white sheets that make the trees across the road completely invisible. My truck is just a white lump in the driveway. The porch light barely cuts through three feet of air before it’s swallowed up.
“That’s... not great,” I say.
Elijah stands and walks to the window, peering out. “Can’t see the road.”
“Can’t see anything.” Milo joins him. “Hope nobody got caught out in this.”
The thought sends a cold twist through my gut. Ridge Road. Miller’s Pass. The mountain roads that wind between here and Pine Valley. Anyone stuck out there right now would be in serious trouble.
“Storm came in fast,” Elijah says quietly.
I don’t say anything. Just watch the white wall outside with unease.
We stand there for a minute, the three of us, watching the storm rage. The cabin feels smaller suddenly. Safer, but smaller. A little pocket of warmth in a whole lot of cold.
Elijah crosses to the fireplace and adds another log without being asked. The fire flares, casting flickering shadows across the walls.
“Hope nobody’s out in this,” Milo mutters.
Tessa drove to Pine Valley this morning for a vendor meeting. I know because I saw her car heading out of town when I was opening the shop. She would’ve taken Ridge Road—my road.
She should be back by now. Right?
The thought nags at me, but I push it down. Tessa Lang is the most competent person I know. She probably checked the weather, left early, and is sitting in her apartment right now color-coding something.
She’s fine.
Milo settles back into his chair. “Nothing we can do anyway. Might as well ride it out.”
He’s right. We’re stuck here. Everyone else is probably stuck wherever they are too. That’s just how Montana works in winter.
I try to focus on the game, but my eyes keep drifting to the window. To the white nothing outside.
Tessa’s fine. She has to be fine.
“You ever think about it?” Milo asks, scraping the last of his chili from the bowl. “Settling down. Finding a pack.”
“Is this your way of proposing?” I bat my eyelashes at him. “Because I’m flattered, but you’re not my type.”
“Your type is apparently angry women with clipboards who want to auction you off.”
“I don’t have a type.”
“You absolutely have a type. Elijah, back me up.”
Elijah considers this for a moment. “He likes stubborn ones. Who don’t take his shit.”
