But I don’t move.
And neither does she.
The fire crackles. The storm rages. And in the warm glow of candlelight, something shifts between us that can’t be unshifted.
Wrong timing, I think.Wrong circumstances. Wrong everything.
But her hand is still touching mine, and she’s looking at me like I’m something worth seeing, and for the first time in four years, I don’t want to be alone.
Chapter 7
MARCELLA
I wake to the smell of coffee and the sound of wind still howling against the windows.
For a moment, I don’t remember where I am. The ceiling above me is unfamiliar—exposed wooden beams, a skylight showing nothing but swirling white. Then memory floods back: the wrong cabin, the storm, Finn McGrath with his gray eyes and his careful silences and the way his fingers felt brushing against mine in the firelight.
I sit up slowly, disoriented. I’m on the couch—his couch, the one he built with his own hands—wrapped in a quilt that smells like cedar and woodsmoke. I don’t remember falling asleep here. Last night is a blur of firelight conversation, shared vulnerabilities, and that electric moment of contact that neither of us acknowledged.
At some point, I must have drifted off. And after that, Finn must have covered me with this blanket.
The thought tugs at something in my chest—something that wants to soften, to read meaning into the gesture.
I shut it down before it can take root. He covered me with a blanket. It’s a small kindness, nothing more. Stephen was capable of small kindnesses too, especially in the beginning. I can’t let myself build a fantasy on a blanket.
I find him in the kitchen, his back to me as he pours coffee from a French press. He’s wearing the same flannel from yesterday—or maybe a different one in the same muted plaid—and his hair is slightly damp, like he’s been outside recently. There’s snow melting on his shoulders, darkening the fabric in small patches.
I take a moment to just look at him before he notices me. The breadth of his shoulders. The way he moves with economical grace, no wasted motion. The slight tension in his posture that I’m starting to recognize as his default state—always alert, always ready.
“Morning,” I say, my voice rough with sleep.
He turns. Those gray eyes sweep over me quickly, cataloging, before settling somewhere safe near my shoulder. “Coffee’s ready. Wasn’t sure how you take it.”
“Black is fine.” I push myself up from the couch, wincing at the stiffness in my neck. The quilt falls away, and I’m suddenly aware that my hair is probably a disaster and my sweater is wrinkled and I definitely don’t look like someone trying to impress anyone. “You didn’t have to sleep on the floor. I told you I’d take the couch.”
“You were already asleep.”
“So you just... watched me sleep and then laid down on the hardwood?”
Something flickers across his face—embarrassment, maybe, or something else I can’t read. “I’ve slept on worse.”
I want to argue, but he’s already pressing a mug into my hands, and the first sip of coffee drives every other thought from my head. It’s perfect—strong and rich and exactly the right temperature, with a depth of flavor that speaks to quality beans and careful preparation.
“This is amazing,” I groan. “What brand is this?”
“Local roaster. Moira sends it up.”
“Your sister has excellent taste.”
That almost-smile again, the one I’m learning to look for. “Don’t tell her that. She’s smug enough already.”
I laugh, and the sound seems to startle him. Like he’s not used to laughter in this space. The thought makes me sad in a way I can’t fully articulate, so I push it aside and focus on the coffee instead.
Through the windows, the world is nothing but white. Snow piles against the glass, and the wind hasn’t let up at all—if anything, it sounds stronger than last night. We’re not going anywhere today. Maybe not tomorrow either.
I should want to leave. I should be counting the hours until the roads clear, planning my escape back to real life where strangers don’t make me feel seen and cozy cabins don’t feel like places I could belong.
So why does part of me hope the storm never ends?
