“I’m always careful,” he says.
Then, quieter, like it’s just for me: “Lock the door.”
I nod.
He opens the door, cold air rushing in, and steps out into the snow like he belongs to it.
Before he leaves the porch, he turns back.
“Mila.”
“Yes?”
He holds my gaze for a beat that feels too long to be nothing.
Then he says, “Soup’s in the bag. Eat.”
And he’s gone—boots crunching, truck engine rumbling, headlights disappearing into the trees.
I stand in the middle of my cabin holding my cocoa like a malfunctioning human.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “So. That happened.”
My phone buzzes on the counter.
A text from an unknown number.
June:Hi sweetheart! It’s June from the Mercantile
I heard you made it to Bluebird safe!
Also—don’t panic—but you’re coming to dinner Sunday. It’s basically a Timber Creek requirement.
And before you ask, yes, Beau will be there. You’re welcome.
I stare at the screen.
Then I whisper, very quietly, “Oh no.”
Because I’m not sure what’s worse:
That I’m being ambushed by a matchmaking grandmother…
Or that the idea of seeing Beau again makes my heart feel like it just found its favorite disaster.
FOUR
BEAU
The thing about the mountains is they don’t care what you’re feeling.
They don’t care that you’re tired. They don’t care that your hands are raw from cold and rope burn. They don’t care that you haven’t slept right in years because your brain still thinks the world is a place you have to guard against.
They don’t care that for the first time in a long time, you walked into a warm cabin and saw a woman with cocoa on her breath and courage in her eyes—then walked back out like you weren’t tempted to stay.
The mountains just keep moving.
So I keep moving too.
