Jax’s place is cleaner than I expected. Which is ridiculous—what exactly was I expecting? A hermit nest? A collection of snow-beaten gear piled up like a dragon hoard? A man with a death wish living in a home that looked like he’d already given up?
Instead, his cabin is immaculate. Not cozy—there’s no warmth in the décor, no softness, nothing lived-in or welcoming—but it’s organized to a fault. Tools arranged by size. Boots lined up like soldiers. Kitchen spotless.
The man may be a storm cloud in human form, but he definitely wipes his counters.
Violet steps inside, rubbing her arms, cheeks still rosy from the cold. “This place is nice,” she says, which is Violet-speak for I feel safe and I’m trying not to make it weird, Mom.
Her voice brightens the room faster than the fire Jax kneels to stoke. He doesn’t say anything to her praise, just shoves another log into the cast-iron stove and shuts the door with a quiet metal click.
Heat blooms slowly. Carefully. Reluctantly—like everything about him.
The cabin itself seems to echo his personality: built to withstand anything, but not built to welcome much.
“Guest room’s this way,” he says gruffly, standing and brushing wood dust from his palms. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t need to. His voice alone hits me with a strange mix of gratitude and discomfort.
I follow him down a short hallway, Violet close at my heels. The floorboards creak faintly under our weight, the sound soft and familiar in a way that makes my chest ache.
The guest room is small but warm. Two windows overlook the pine grove out back, already heavy with snow. There’s a dresser, an old quilt folded neatly at the foot of the bed, and one mattress.
One.
My stomach sinks for a second before gratitude chases the feeling away.
We’ll share. We’ve shared before. When Violet was little, she’d climb into my bed almost every night. Diabetes made nighttime unpredictable, and I liked keeping her close.
Now she’s fourteen—too old to need her mom hovering, but not too old for comfort.
“You can take this room,” Jax says, voice rougher than the old quilt. “There’s extra blankets in the closet.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
He acknowledges it with a grunt that could mean anything from‘You’re welcome’to‘Please stop being polite to me.’
He doesn’t rush out. He stands in the doorway like he’s debating whether to retreat or force another sentence out of himself. He settles on retreat, disappearing back down the hall with the kind of quiet tension that suggests he prefers the company of blizzards over people.
Violet steps into the room and runs her hand across the quilt. “Mom,” she whispers, almost giddy. “We’re staying in a mountain lodge with a guy who looks like he fights bears for fun.”
“Violet,” I hiss, trying—and failing—not to smile.
“What?” She drapes herself dramatically across the bed. “You know I’m right. He looks like he hasn’t smiled since 1997.”
“He’s… intense,” I admit.
“He’s cool,” she counters, rolling onto her side. “Like a sad lumberjack.”
“Oh my God,” I groan. “Please do not say that in front of him.”
“Relax. I’m not reckless.” She sits up and shrugs off her coat. “But seriously… he helped. He didn’t have to let us stay.”
“I know.” And the quiet truth of that hits deeper than it should. “I know.”
We unpack minimally—just the essentials for the night: her insulin, meter, a spare set of clothes, toothbrushes. The routine steadies me. The little rituals that keep Violet healthy feel like anchors when everything else is sliding downhill.
I double-check her supplies twice, because my hands are shaking and I don’t want her to see.
Outside the window, the wind rattles the old glass. Snow dances in wild spirals. The storm is the kind that shuts down the whole mountain—the kind we’d never survive without heat.
Without a generator.
