Either way, it feels like losing.
Chapter 11
MARCELLA
Three hours of silence is all I can take.
After our confrontation this morning, Finn retreated into himself so completely it’s like I’m sharing space with a ghost. He checks on systems that don’t need checking. Adjusts the fire that’s burning fine. Stands at the window staring at nothing, his jaw tight and his shoulders rigid.
I give him space at first. Maybe he needs time to think. Maybe the enormity of what I’m asking—that he choose hope over fear—requires processing I can’t rush.
But when he pulls on his coat and boots and heads for the back door without a word, something in me snaps.
“Where are you going?”
“Woodpile needs restacking.”
“It’s twenty degrees and snowing.”
“I’ve worked in worse.”
The door closes behind him before I can respond.
I stand in the kitchen, hands clenched at my sides, and make a decision. I’m not doing this. I’m not spending our last hours together—because they are our last hours, the storm is breaking and reality is coming—watching him hide from me behind physical labor and emotional walls.
If he wants me gone when the roads clear, fine. But he’s going to look me in the eye and tell me why. The real why. Not the sanitized version he offered this morning.
I grab my coat and follow him out.
The cold hits like a slap,sharp and immediate. Snow swirls around me as I trudge toward the woodshed, my city boots completely inadequate for the drifts piling against the ranger station. I don’t care. There are more important things than frozen toes.
Finn is exactly where I expected—splitting logs with a violence that has nothing to do with building a fire. The axe rises and falls in a brutal rhythm, each impact sending wood chips flying. His breath comes in visible puffs, his flannel already dark with sweat despite the freezing temperature.
He doesn’t acknowledge me. Just keeps swinging.
“We need to talk.”
Rise. Fall. Crack.
“Finn.”
Rise. Fall. Crack.
“I’m not leaving until you actually talk to me.”
He pauses mid-swing, the axe frozen above his head. For a moment, I think he’s going to ignore me, keep chopping until I give up and go back inside.
Instead, he lowers the axe and turns to face me.
“There’s nothing left to say.”
“Bullshit.”
His eyes widen slightly. I press my advantage.
“You gave me the cliff notes version this morning. Nightmares, panic attacks, social anxiety. Fine. But that’s not the whole story, and we both know it.” I step closer, ignoring the cold seeping through my inadequate clothing. “Tell me the rest. Tell me why you’re so convinced you don’t deserve to be happy.”
“Marcella—”
