The storm hits harder than the forecasts predicted—hard enough that the cabin walls tremble with every gust, hard enough that even the generator hums with a slight strain. I tightened the bolts this morning. Double-checked the wiring. Ran the system test twice.
Old habits die hard.
Or maybe they don’t die at all. Maybe they just go quiet long enough for you to pretend you’re someone else.
I’m in the workshop when I hear the knock. Three sharp raps on the door, swallowed almost instantly by wind.
My whole body goes still. No one knocks on my door.
People in Silver Ridge understand the unspoken rule: the new guy doesn’t want company. He doesn’t want small talk. He doesn’t want casseroles or welcome baskets or invitations to town bonfires. He wants distance.
He wants solitude. So the knock makes no sense.
Another set follows. Quicker. Lighter. Urgent.
I roll my eyes toward the ceiling. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I strip off my gloves, cross the dim cabin, and unlock the door—
And the wind immediately shoves a flurry of snow in my face, followed by two figures huddled under the porch overhang.
A woman, and a girl.
The woman I recognize instantly—brown hair plastered to her cheeks, lashes dusted white, jacket stiff with cold. The EMT. The one who dragged me out of the snow with more stubborn conviction than sense.
Ava.
She blinks up at me now, cheeks flushed from windburn, breath fogging in the air between us.
“Hi,” she says, voice loud over the storm. “Sorry to bother you, but we—”
“No.” The word is out before she can finish.
Her brows shoot up. “No?”
“No,” I repeat flatly. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”
Her mouth opens in absolute disbelief. “Selling? Seriously? Do I look like I’m here to sell you something?”
I give her a sweeping glance—wind-whipped hair, red nose, snow-soaked jeans, trembling teenager at her side.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe you’re selling poor decisions.”
Her jaw drops.
And the girl beside her—young, maybe fourteen—gives a tiny, breathless laugh. Just a puff of amusement like she wasn’t expecting me to say that.
I look at her more carefully—round cheeks flushed pink from the cold, curls escaping her hat, eyes wide but bright. She’s hugging her arms to her chest, shivering visibly.
A jolt hits my stomach. Not fear.
Something worse. Concern.
I straighten. “Why are you here?”
Ava squares her shoulders like she’s bracing for impact. “Your generator. People said you had one.”
I don’t answer. I just stare.
