I glance at her, and her expression shifts—softening, like she realizes she just touched something tender.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to answer,” she adds quickly. “I’m just… curious.”
Curious.
Not prying. Not demanding. Not pitying.
Just curious.
I swallow, then gesture toward my truck. “Get in your car, Mila.”
She blinks. “I?—”
“Get in,” I repeat, firm. “Before you start turning blue.”
She laughs and climbs in.
I get in my truck, radio the station. “Haven 7, this is Beau. I’ve got the stranded vehicle. No injuries. Escorting to Bluebird cabin.”
Dillon’s voice crackles back. “Copy. You headed back after?”
I look in the rearview mirror. Mila’s headlights glow behind me like she’s tethered herself to my path.
“Yeah,” I lie. “After.”
“June’s gonna ask,” Dillon adds, and I can practically hear the grin.
I tighten my jaw. “June asks about everything.”
“That’s what grandmas do.”
My hands clench on the wheel.
June. Grandma. The woman in the Mercantile who just happens to have her fingers in every pie in Timber Creek.
Including, apparently, my love life.
I guide us through the narrow lane, the truck cutting clean tracks through the snow. Mila stays close, careful. Good girl—no, don’t call her that in your head, Wilder, Jesus.
A few minutes later, the trees open and Bluebird cabin appears—warm light glowing from the windows, smoke curling from the chimney like the place has been waiting for her.
Mila pulls into the small clearing, parking crooked like she’s too relieved to care about aesthetics.
I climb out, and she does too, staring at the cabin like it’s a miracle.
“It’s… actually adorable,” she breathes.
Her voice is soft in the cold, and something in me shifts again—like my body recognizes her warmth and wants to move toward it.
She turns to me, smile bright. “Thank you. Seriously. I would’ve?—”
“Froze,” I supply.
She points at me. “Maybe.”
I step closer, because I’m an idiot. “You got food?”
She blinks. “Uh. Some snacks.”
