“At least now you know what you dragged out of that avalanche,” I say, forcing calm I don’t feel. “And if you want to leave, if you want to take Violet and never look back… I won’t stop you.”
The expectation lands like a stone in my gut.
This is the part where good people walk away.
Where fear outweighs whatever fragile thing we’ve been building.
Ava is silent for a long moment. Not cold—thoughtful. Her gaze searches mine like she’s looking for proof of something.
Finally, she inhales, slow and steady. “I’m not leaving.”
Three words. Simple on the surface. Earth-shattering underneath.
I blink. “You should.”
“I’m not.”
I lift my gaze to hers, and in that look she sees every fracture I’ve spent years hiding—the grief, the shame, the bone-deep terror of ever caring again.
“Jackson,” she says—my name soft but solid, real in a way it hasn’t been in years—“you survived because someone still needed you to.”
I swallow hard, unable to respond. Because I don’t know if I believe her.
But in this moment—with her hand holding mine like it’s worth something—I want to.
She reaches across the table, not to hold my hand, not to claim anything—just to anchor us both in this moment, in the truth laid bare between us.
And when her fingertips brush mine, soft but sure, I feel something I haven’t felt in years.
A reason to stay.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ava
Three days.
That’s how long it’s been since Jax told me the truth in that quiet kitchen. Since I told him I wasn’t leaving, but that I needed space to breathe.
And space is exactly what he’s given me. A respectful, torturous amount of space.
We move around each other carefully now. Not cold—just cautious. He still makes coffee in the mornings, still checks the generator when the wind howls, and still softens whenever Violet talks to him. But all the warmth he used to meet my gaze with… it’s tucked away behind walls he rebuilt the second I asked for time.
Violet feels the shift. Kids always do.
She keeps shooting us looks—little curious glances like she’s tracing invisible lines in the air, trying to redraw the distance neither of us explains.
The silence between heartbeats stretches longer every day.
Late afternoon, my phone buzzes with a call from Ranger Tom.
“The repairs are done,” he says. “Roof’s patched. Heat stabilized. You can head back whenever you’re ready.”
Whenever I’m ready.
I thank him, and when I hang up, the words sit like ice in my throat.
Our cabin. Normal life. Routine.
