“Look,” she says, louder this time, fighting to be heard over another brutal gust of wind, “our heat is out. Half the town’s is. The storm is getting worse, and I can’t risk her insulin freezing.”
She nods at the girl, who stiffens as though being pointed out is the worst part of this entire ordeal.
“She’s diabetic,” Ava adds. “We need somewhere warm. Just until the grid stabilizes or the storm passes.”
“No,” I say again, but this time the word comes out quieter. Rougher.
Ava’s eyes flash. “Are you kidding me?”
“It’s a bad storm,” I say. “You shouldn’t have come out in it.”
Her mouth opens in outrage. “What—did you think we wanted to? You think we trudged up the mountain in a blizzard for fun?”
“I think you made a reckless choice,” I say.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she snaps, stepping forward with a glare fierce enough to thaw ice. “I forgot this town’s official avalanche enthusiast had strong opinions about safety.”
The girl snorts again, trying—and failing—not to grin.
I grit my teeth. “This isn’t the same.”
“No,” she fires back, “it’s not. You walked into danger because you didn’t care if you made it out. I walked into it because she needed me to.”
Silence punches between us. Snow whips across the porch.
Ava’s breath shivers out in front of her. So does the girl’s. Her lips are starting to lose color.
Something hard and ugly twists under my ribs.
Damn it.I step aside.
Ava freezes. “What are you—?”
“Get in,” I mutter. “Before the kid turns into a popsicle.”
Her shoulders drop a half inch, relief washing over her features before her pride takes over. “Thank you,” she says stiffly.
The girl ducks under my arm first, stepping into the warm cabin with wide, grateful eyes. And when she passes, she looks up at me—small, shy, exhausted—and gives me the tiniest, bravest smile.
Something inside me cracks so sharply I almost flinch.
She whispers, “Thank you, sir.”
Sir. God.
When’s the last time anyone said that without expectation? Without agenda? With real, earnest sincerity?
She moves past me as Ava steps in after her.
I close the door against the storm, the latch clicking into place with finality.
The cabin settles around us—warm, insulated, humming with the quiet steadiness of the generator.
Ava pulls off her coat, brushing melting snow from her hair. She looks softer in the low cabin light—still fierce, still fire-bright, but human in a way I’m not used to seeing up close.
“You okay?” she asks her daughter gently.
The girl nods. “Yeah. Just cold.”
