Keep your eyes open.
You don’t get to die today.
I clench my jaw and walk faster, pushing deeper into the dark.
I don’t want her voice in my head.
I don’t want her face flashing behind my eyes.
And I sure as hell don’t want the stupid flicker of guilt that’s been nipping at my heels all day.
She shouldn’t have had to pull me out of the snow. She shouldn’t have to deal with idiots who get themselves nearly killed. She shouldn’t have had to look into the eyes of a man who wishes she’d been too late.
The guilt festers, turning sour.
By the time my wandering brings me near the row of rental cabins, I’m tired—bone-tired—and ready to turn around before someone spots me and decides I’m social enough to chat.
I angle away from the main path… and that’s when I see it.
Her cabin.
A small, boxy silhouette tucked between two larger rentals.
And her lights are flickering. Not cozy flickering. Not candlelight.
Electrical flickering.
The kind that means bad wiring, overloaded circuits, or a faulty line about to start a fire.
I stop walking.
Just stand there, breath freezing in front of me, staring like an idiot.
It could be nothing. Old cabins do that. Lights flicker. Power surges. It’s fine.
But something in my chest tightens anyway.
A pulse of unease. A jolt of… worry?
I frown, annoyed by the feeling itself.
Why the hell would I worry about her?
She’s capable. Sharp. Tough enough to drag a full-grown man uphill through a blizzard. She doesn’t need someone checking on her wiring. She doesn’t need anything from me.
Still, the light flickers again—harder this time.
Once. Twice.
My gut twists.
I take a step toward her porch. Then stop.
What am I supposed to do? Knock on her door and say what? I noticed your lights were flickering and came to… help?
No. No, absolutely not. I force myself to turn away and walk home.
Ignore the fact that the image of her in the dark cabin keeps scraping at my thoughts—curly hair wild from the storm, cheeks still pink from the cold, that stubborn spark in her eyes.
