Something cracks open in my chest—something I’ve kept locked away for four years. The words come before I can stop them.
“I’d rather be scared with you than safe alone.”
I feel her go still behind me. For a long moment, she doesn’t respond, and I think I’ve said too much, pushed too fast, ruined whatever fragile thing was building between us.
Then, quietly: “That’s a big thing to say to someone you’ve known for two days.”
I turn to face her. She’s so close. Close enough to see the conflict in her eyes—hope warring with something harder. Wariness. Self-protection. The same walls I’ve spent four years building, reflected back at me.
“I know,” I say. “But it’s true.”
“Finn...” She takes a breath, and I watch her struggle. “I want to believe that. I want to believe this is real, that it means something. But I’ve been here before. I’ve believed someone before.”
“I’m not him.”
“I know you’re not.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “But I’m still the same person who got it wrong. Who saw what she wanted to see instead of what was real.” She meets my eyes, and there’s something raw there. Honest. “I can’t just... fall. Not again. Not that fast. Even if part of me wants to.”
The words should sting. They don’t. If anything, they make me want her more—this woman who’s been hurt and still showed up, still tried, still offered to massage a stranger’s scarred leg because she wanted to help.
“I’m not asking you to fall,” I tell her. “I’m not asking for promises or commitment or anything you can’t give. I’m just asking you to not leave. Not yet.”
“I can’t leave.” A ghost of a smile. “There’s a blizzard.”
“You know what I mean.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. The fire crackles. The storm howls. And I wait, heart hammering, for her to decide if I’m worth the risk.
“I can try,” she says finally. “That’s all I can promise. I can try.”
It’s not the answer I wanted. It’s notI’d rather be scared with you tooorI’m falling for youor any of the things I didn’t know I was hoping to hear.
But it’s honest. And right now, honest is enough.
“Okay,” I say. “We’ll try. Together.”
She reaches up and touches my face with gentle fingers, the contact sending warmth flooding through me.
“Together,” she echoes softly, her expression softening—just a fraction. Just enough.
It’s not a promise. Not yet.
But it’s a start.
Chapter 9
MARCELLA
So much for that illuminating conversation about trying together.
Instead of actually trying—together, his words—Finn retreats into himself; checking systems that don’t need checking, adjusting logs that are burning fine, doing anything to avoid being in the same space as me.
So I give him room. What else can I do? He said he’d try, but trying apparently looks like avoiding eye contact while the tension between us grows thick enough to choke on.
We make dinner in loaded silence. I throw together pasta with garlic and olive oil—simple, impossible to mess up—while he sets the table with careful precision, not a utensil out of alignment.
Every time we pass each other in the small kitchen, the air crackles. His hand brushes my hip reaching for a pot, and we both freeze like we’ve been burned.
“Sorry,” he mutters, and puts three feet of distance between us.
