Tonight, I just want to feel safe. Even if I can’t quite let myself believe it will last.
Wrong cabin. Wrong timing. Wrong everything.
And I still don’t know if this is where I’m supposed to be, or just where I ended up.
But right now, with Finn’s heartbeat steady under my ear and the storm howling outside, I’m not ready to leave.
That has to be enough. For now.
Chapter 10
FINN
I wake with Marcella in my arms, and for one perfect moment, everything is right.
Her head rests on my chest, dark hair spilling across my skin like ink on paper. Her breathing is slow and even, her body soft and warm against mine. One of her hands curls over my heart, fingers splayed like she’s holding it in place.
Maybe she is.
The gray morning light filters through the skylight, muted by the snow still falling outside. The storm hasn’t stopped, but it’s quieter now. Gentler. Like even the weather knows something precious happened here and doesn’t want to disturb it.
I don’t move. Don’t want to wake her. Don’t want to break whatever spell has made this possible—this woman, this moment, this feeling in my chest that I barely recognize.
Happiness. That’s what this is.
I’d almost forgotten what it felt like.
Marcella shifts in her sleep, pressing closer, and her lips brush against my collarbone. The contact sends warmth flooding through me, followed immediately by something colder. Sharper.
Fear.
Because this can’t last. None of this can last.
The thoughts come slow at first, then faster, building momentum like an avalanche. She has a life in Denver. A career. Friends. A world I can’t be part of, not really. And what do I have? A ranger station in the middle of nowhere. A furniture business that barely pays the bills. A broken mind that can’t handle crowds or noise or any of the things normal people take for granted.
Last night was incredible. Last night was everything I didn’t know I needed.
But last night doesn’t change reality.
I look down at her—this beautiful, vibrant woman who somehow ended up in my bed—and I see the future stretching out in front of us like a minefield. She’ll want to go places. Do things. Introduce me to her friends, meet mine. Except I don’t have friends. I have Moira, and that’s it. I have a life specifically designed to avoid everything she represents.
She’ll try to change that. She’ll be patient at first, understanding. She’ll coax me into going to town, attending events, beingnormal. And I’ll try, because I’ll want to make her happy. But eventually, I’ll fail. The anxiety will win. I’ll embarrass her,disappoint her, become a burden she has to manage instead of a partner she can rely on.
I’ve seen it happen. The VA support groups were full of men whose relationships crumbled under the weight of their damage. Divorces, estrangements, partners who couldn’t handle the nightmares and the triggers and the constant work of loving someone who’s fundamentally broken.
One guy—Winston, I think his name was—told us his wife left after two years of trying. She’d been supportive at first. Patient. But eventually the midnight wake-ups and the canceled plans and the inability to justbe normalwore her down. “She said she felt like my caretaker, not his partner,” he told us. “She said she loved me, but she couldn’t keep living half a life.”
That stuck with me. Half a life. That’s what I’d be offering Marcella.
That’s what I’m offering her. A life of managing my dysfunction. Of making excuses for why we can’t go to that restaurant or that party or that trip she wants to take. Of learning my triggers and walking on eggshells and slowly, inevitably, growing to resent me for everything I can’t give her.
She deserves better.
The thought settles into my chest like a stone.
Carefully, so carefully, I extract myself from her embrace. She murmurs something in her sleep, reaching for me, and I have to physically stop myself from crawling back into bed and never leaving.
Instead, I pull on my jeans and flannel and slip downstairs.
