“Get in,” he murmurs.
“Sure,” I say just as softly. “But one day you’re going to tell me what that was.”
His jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer.
The storm outside is finally gone. But the one inside this man is nowhere close to settling.
And I have a feeling I’m standing right at the edge of it.
***
We’ve been back at the cabin for maybe twenty minutes when the knocks start.
Not one knock. A parade of knocks.
I open the door to find Mrs. Parker holding a casserole the size of a small continent.
“Ava, honey,” she coos, elbowing her way inside before I can protest, “we heard about the roof situation at the clinic and wanted to make sure you and Violet have enough food while things are up in the air.”
Behind her are two more women carrying bags of groceries, a freshly baked loaf of bread, and what appears to be a homemade quilt.
“Roof situation?” I echo, stomach tightening.
Mrs. Parker nods sadly. “That last storm did more damage. Insurance won’t cover it. Fundraiser’s falling apart. Town board’s in a tizzy.”
A cold thread of fear unspools in my ribs.
If the clinic goes under… If they cut more services… If Violet loses access to her care…
No. I shove the thought aside. Not here. Not in front of neighbors with casseroles and good intentions.
“Thank you,” I manage. “We’re… managing.”
They sweep inside anyway, chatting and clucking like mother hens. Violet beams—because casseroles mean cheese—but Jax stands rigid in the corner of the living room like a giant, pissed-off sentry whose home has just been invaded by politely weaponized kindness.
“Isn’t this lovely,” Mrs. Parker declares. “All of you under one roof. Cozy as anything.”
Jax emits a low sound that is 70% disbelief, 20% dread, and 10% “I’m going to chop firewood until dawn.”
I catch his eye. He looks miserable. I grin. I can’t help it.
The switch flips in him instantly. An almost-glare. A silentdon’t enjoy this.
Which, naturally, makes me enjoy it even more.
After the fourth casserole drop-off and the third lecture about proper winter hydration, the last neighbor finally leaves. The cabin falls quiet.
Jax rubs both hands over his face. “Do they always do that?”
“Pretty much,” I say, leaning against the counter. “Silver Ridge doesn’t mind its own business. It minds yours. Loudly.”
He groans into his palms. “This is a nightmare.”
“You get used to it.”
“I don’t want to get used to it.”
I smile down into the casserole in my hands, warmth rising up beneath my ribs like a slow-building ember.
