The ranger stationfeels different this morning. Smaller. More claustrophobic.
I go through the motions of my routine—coffee, fire, systems check—but none of it brings the usual comfort. The silence I’ve cultivated for four years now feels oppressive rather than peaceful. Every corner of this place reminds me of her. The kitchen where she cooked. The couch where we talked. The window where I first saw Boyd being cruel and felt something protective flare in my chest.
This was supposed to be my sanctuary. Now it feels like evidence of everything I’m about to lose.
I’m on my second cup of coffee when I hear her on the stairs.
“Hey.” Her voice is sleep-rough and warm. “You weren’t there when I woke up.”
I don’t turn around. “Needed to check on things.”
“Things?” She sounds closer now. I can feel her presence at my back like heat from a fire. “Finn, is everything okay?”
“Fine.”
The word comes out clipped. Cold. I hear her stop moving.
“That’s not a ‘fine’ voice. That’s a ‘something’s wrong and I don’t want to talk about it’ voice.” A pause. “Did I... was last night...”
“Last night was good.” I force myself to turn, to meet her eyes. She’s wearing one of my flannels—I don’t remember hergrabbing it—and her hair is a mess, and she looks so beautiful it physically hurts. “It was better than good.”
“Then why do you look like you’re about to deliver bad news?”
Because I am. Because I have to.
The words stick in my throat.
“Finn.” She crosses the distance between us, reaches for my hand. I let her take it, even though I shouldn’t. “Talk to me. Whatever’s going on in your head, just tell me.”
“The storm’s breaking.”
She blinks at the non sequitur. “What?”
“The storm. It’s weakening. Radio said the roads should be clear by this afternoon, tomorrow morning at the latest.” I force myself to look at her. “You’ll be able to leave soon.”
Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed quickly by something that looks like hurt. “Is that what this is about? You’re pulling away because I’m about to leave?”
“I’m being realistic.”
“You’re being an ass.”
The bluntness startles an almost-laugh out of me. “Marcella?—”
“No.” She drops my hand, steps back, and I see the hurt transforming into anger. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to give me last night—everything last night was—and then shut down the moment reality gets complicated.”
“It’s not about shutting down. It’s about being honest.”
“About what?”
“About the fact that this doesn’t work,” I reply. “You have a life in Denver. I have... this.” I gesture at the ranger station. “I can barely handle going to town, Marcella. You think I can handle your world? Restaurants, events, meeting your friends? I’d be a disaster. I’d embarrass you. And eventually, you’d realize you made a mistake, and you’d leave, and?—”
“And you’d be hurt,” she finishes quietly. “So you’re leaving first. Emotionally, at least.”
I don’t have an answer for that.
“Did it occur to you that I get a say in this?” Her voice is steadier now, but I can hear the pain underneath. “That maybe I’ve thought about the logistics too, and I’m willing to try anyway? That I’m a grown woman who can make her own choices about what she can handle?”
“You don’t know what you’d be signing up for.”
