From us.
Before I could spiral any further, Liam nudged me with his mug. “I mean this kindly: welcome to liking Sienna. You get used to the smoke trails.”
I sighed. “I don’t want to make her uncomfortable.”
“Then don’t.” He shrugged. “Give her room, but don’t disappear. She hates disappearing acts.”
“Contradiction noted.”
“It’s our family brand.”
I smirked despite myself.
Liam paused in the doorway. “Just don’t give up on her. She’s trying, even when it looks like she’s retreating to Alaska in her mind.”
I straightened. “I’m not giving up.”
“I figured,” he said, smiling. “You’re still here.”
When he left, the office felt too quiet again. I stood there staring at the calendar, the erased smudge where her name had been, the blank space next to mine.
She’d crossed herself off the weekend.
But not out of disinterest.
Out of fear.
And maybe… maybe that was something we could work through.
If she let me.
If we talked.
If I could figure out how to say what I meant without sending her running into another state.
I pulled my phone out again.
Still no response.
I shook my head, let out a low breath, and forced myself to walk out of the office, hoping that, stupidly and stubbornly, I’d run into her on the property.
I didn’t.
But I would run into her soon.
And when I did…
We were talking.
One way or another.
I stepped outside, hoping the cool air would shake loose some of the tension sitting under my ribs. Spring in Buttercup Lake was an inconsistent thing. Warm sun in the morning, cold wind in the afternoon, a kind of seasonal mood swing that made you layer twice and regret both choices. Today, the air was crisp but bright, carrying the scent of thawing soil and pine needles. It felt like a promise. It also felt like uncertainty.
I walked the gravel path toward the cabins, not with any real expectation of finding her but simply because walking eased the pressure in my chest. The lodge grounds were quiet except for the distant buzz of a chainsaw from Beck cutting fallen limbs near the trailhead. The world looked normal, ordinary even, which made the knot in my stomach feel ridiculous. This was just a schedule shift. Just one weekend. Just a pencil line.
But I couldn’t shake the sense that something had shifted in her—something subtle but real. Our night walk had left us balanced on the edge of something more, a moment that hovered between confession and collision. She’d looked at me like she wanted to say something true and terrifying, then retreated at the last second. And then we’d hurriedly gone into guiding guests into the wilderness and avoiding each other in the days in between. And now the calendar reflected that same hesitance.
Part of me wanted to respect the boundary she’d drawn. Another part, the one that remembered how she’d pressed her forehead to mine in the tent, wanted to erase the blank space with her name and write it in ink. It wasn’t because I needed the help guiding a trip; I’d led more difficult routes alone, butbecause the idea of spending a weekend in the woods without her didn’t feel like progress. It felt like stepping backward.
