If I can do that, I can get Ava out of here. The cabin might technically be safe with its thick log walls and storm windows, but her mental state is slipping. God knows she needs the peace of mind more than anything right now.
But when I step around to the other side of the car to finish the job, I see it. The front driver's side tire is fucking flat. I don’t know how I missed the comical lean before. There’s no debris around it, no visible damage, it’s just flat.
"Perfect," I mutter, stomping off to the back and yanking open the rear hatch.
The spare’s there. It’s not ideal to use one in these conditions, but it’ll work. Swapping it out takes another twenty minutes of clearing snow I thought I could avoid, and ten to change the tire. I finish with a grunt and wipe the sweat dripping down my temple. The cold air burns against my damp skin.
Finally, I climb into the driver’s seat, shove the key angrily in the ignition, and turn it.
Nothing.
Trying again results in the same silence. My palm connects with the steering wheel, until the meat of it’s bruised from my frustrated assault.
Frowning out at the arctic tundra, I pop the hood and climb back out, lifting it with more force than necessary. I blink in confusion. The spot where a battery should be is empty, with exposed cables hanging freely. It’s gone. Not Dead. Not accidentally disconnected by the rough drive. Not even frozen over…gone.
I blink, thinking maybe I’m missing something, maybe I’m too damn tired. But no, my mind’s not fucking with me.
“What the hell…”
The dread from last night comes flooding back. Thicker than the fluid in these reservoirs. It pours down my spine and pools in my gut.
I slam the hood shut with a loudclangand storm back toward the cabin, boots crunching over the packed snow, tools forgotten in my haste.
The door creaks as I push it open harder than I mean to, sending it slamming into the coat rack.
Inside, the fire’s going again, and the warmth hits like a brick wall. So does the sound of a startled gasp.
Ava steps down the hallway, hair damp, a towel wrapped around her body. Her eyes blow wide, chest heaving slightly from the surprise. The curve of her hip peeks out from the edge of terrycloth, water still dripping down the inside of her thighs.
For a second, I forget what I was going to say. But then she stiffens. Not from the cold, but from my exasperated arrival. The memory of last night floods back into the space between us like a mirage across a desolate desert we’re both trying not to see.
“You scared me,” she says, voice clipped.
“Sorry,” I mutter, stepping out of my boots. “Didn’t mean to.”
She watches me, guarded and clutching at her towel like a shield. I hate it. There’s still a sliver of heat in her gaze, but it’s buried under something else now.
Distance, multiplied by her mistrust.
The guilt from this morning comes tumbling in because I can’t deny it anymore. Two nights in a row, things have been happening under our noses—my skeptical nose. It was easy to push it aside the first night. In my haste, I thought she was still sleeping, but maybe I was too worked up from her petrified scream to see.
“I was just about to make coffee,” she says, turning away like nothing’s happened. “Want some?”
“Please.”
I shouldn’t have tried to do the same last night. Maybe then she wouldn’t have her back to me the first time we set eyes on each other in the light of day.
I need to fix this.
She hands me the warm mug, steaming from the fresh pour over, and her fingers brush mine. The air between us is still thick with everything unsaid. She’s too quiet, missing that usual spark I’m drawn to like a pathetic little moth.
I take a breath, knowing this will either calm the storm brewing between us or send it into historical makings. “Do you have your keys?”
Her brow furrows. “Why?”
I stare into the black liquid in my cup, gathering the words. “Because I was wrong… last night.”
That catches her off guard. Her eyes flick to mine, and her chest rises with the deep inhale.
