He looks down at his bowl, his expression unreadable.
I take a breath and keep going, my voice softer now. "I taught for years. I saw kids in classrooms who had everything and they were still lonely. Still felt invisible. What matters most isn't where you are. It's whether someone sees you."
He looks up again, and this time his gaze holds mine.
"She sees you," I add. "That's obvious."
The tension in his jaw eases slightly, and his shoulders drop just a fraction.
"You're good with her," he says quietly.
"I like kids. Always have."
"Why'd you stop teaching?"
I set my spoon down and lean back in my chair, considering how much to say.
"I got tired of feeling replaceable," I say finally. "I poured everything into it, and it was never enough. The kids were great. But the system, the administration, the parents… it wore me down. I started tutoring because I thought it would be different. And it is, in some ways. But it's also—" I pause, searching for the right word. "Temporary. I'm always temporary."
Ezra's quiet for a moment, watching me.
"That why you're up here?" he asks.
I nod. "Needed space. Time to think."
"And?"
"And I still don't have answers." I smile faintly. "But at least I'm not freezing to death in the woods anymore."
His mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but close.
"You were close," he says. "Another hour and you'd have been in real trouble."
"I know." The admission comes easier than I expect. "Thank you. For finding me."
He nods once, then picks up his spoon again.
We finish eating in comfortable silence, and when I'm done, I carry my bowl to the counter. He follows, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floor, and takes the bowl from my hands before I can rinse it.
"I've got it," he says.
"I can help."
"You've done enough."
I step back and let him work, watching as he rinses the bowls and stacks them neatly by the basin.
His hands are large and scarred, his knuckles rough. But his movements are precise, nothing wasted.
I look away before he catches me staring and move back toward the fire, lowering myself onto the couch. Bolt lifts his head fromwhere he's sprawled on the rug, tail thumping once, then settles back down with a heavy sigh.
Ezra finishes at the counter and turns, leaning against it with his arms crossed. He's watching me again, his expression thoughtful.
"Storm's not letting up," he says.
I glance toward the window. Snow is still falling thick and fast, the glass fogged over completely.
"No," I agree.
