Ava turns back to me, her anger melting into relief again. She brushes a stray flake of melted snow from my eyebrow like she has every right to touch me now.
“You’re staying here,” she tells me gently. “Until your core temp is stable.”
I catch her wrist.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say. “Not from you. Not from her.”
Her eyes soften, voice barely a breath. “Good.”
Across from me, Violet shifts in her sleep, mumbling something about cocoa and dragons.
Ava smiles—tired and radiant—and slips her hand into mine under the blanket, squeezing tight.
Not an accident. Not a comfort. A claim.
For the first time in years, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—I belong.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Ava
Morning arrives fragile and shaken.
The storm spent the night clawing at the cabin. But when dawn finally pushes through the frozen dark, the world is quiet again. Too quiet.
Violet sleeps in her room, bundled like a tiny mountain of quilts, cheeks flushed with returning warmth. Her breathing is deep and steady. Alive. Safe.
Because of him.
I ease the door shut and stand there for a moment, letting the relief sink into me one more time—not just that Violet survived, but that someone cared enough to fight the mountain itself for her.
Someone who shouldn’t have had to care at all… But did.
I need to see him.
I step outside. My breath smokes in the air as I walk. Jax’s cabin is a short hike, and I’ve memorized the rhythm of that walk. When his cabin comes into view, my chest tightens.
The truck is parked out front. Doors open. Cabinets emptied. Boxes stacked.
He’s leaving.
Jax hefts a duffel bag into the truck bed, his movements stiff and tired. He’s cleaned up—fresh clothes, hair damp like he tried to wash off the night—but the exhaustion still clings to him. He looks like a man bracing for a blow that he expects will be his own fault.
“Jax.” My voice cracks cold and quiet.
He stops mid-reach. Shoulders tense. He doesn’t turn around.
“I thought you’d still be at the station,” he says carefully. “With Violet.”
“She’s asleep in her own bed.” I swallow. “She’s okay.”
His breath leaves him in something that almost sounds like relief—and almost like a goodbye.
I take a step closer. Snow crunches under my boots, too loud in the hush between us.
“What are you doing?” I ask, though I already know.
He grips the edge of the truck bed, knuckles whitening. “I can’t stay.”
