We finish the bread together—Marcella shapes the loaves while I prepare the oven, and the ranger station fills with the smell of baking. When they come out, golden and perfect, she tears off a piece and holds it to my lips. The bread is warm and soft, slightly sweet, nothing like anything I’ve eaten from a store. I tell her so, and her whole face lights up.
We cook lunch side by side, moving around each other with an ease that feels earned rather than accidental. She shows me her grandmother’s technique for perfectly caramelized onions—low heat, patience, a splash of water when they start to stick. I teach her which herbs in my windowsill garden pair best with what, how rosemary can overpower delicate dishes but transforms something hearty.
“You know more about cooking than you let on,” she accuses, bumping her hip against mine.
“I know how to survive. That’s different from what you do.”
“What I do isn’t magic. It’s just... paying attention. Caring about the details.”
The same could be said about my furniture, I realize. We’re more alike than I thought.
After lunch, we curl up on the couch with mugs of tea, and she tells me about her food blog. The early days when she had twelve followers and posted blurry photos taken on her phone. The slowgrowth, the first sponsored post, the community of readers who leave comments that sometimes make her cry.
“I want to write a cookbook someday,” she admits, ducking her head like she’s embarrassed. “Something personal. Not just recipes, but the stories behind them. Why food matters. How it connects us.”
“You should.”
She looks up, surprised by my certainty.
“I mean it. You have a gift, Marcella. The way you talk about cooking—it’s not just about the food. It’s about love. Anyone can see that.”
Her eyes fill. She blinks rapidly, looking away.
“Stephen said cookbooks were vanity projects. That no one would buy something from a food blogger with fifty thousand followers when they could get recipes from actual celebrities.”
I feel the familiar surge of anger at her ex—this man I’ve never met who did so much damage to someone so bright.
“Stephen was wrong about everything.” I take her hand, lace my fingers through hers. “Write the cookbook. I’ll be your first customer.”
She laughs, watery but genuine. “You don’t even cook.”
“I’m learning.”
The smile she gives me is worth every moment of fear I’ve felt since she walked into my life.
The light outsideis fading when we hear it.
At first, I think it’s thunder—a low rumble in the distance, building slowly. But the storm is over. The sky is clearing.
Then I recognize the sound.
Heavy machinery. Diesel engines. The grind of plows pushing through packed snow.
Road crews.
Marcella goes still beside me, her hand tightening on mine.
“Is that...”
“Yeah.” My voice sounds hollow to my own ears. “They’re clearing the pass.”
We both turn toward the window. In the distance, I can see the flash of yellow lights—maintenance vehicles working their way up the mountain road. By tonight, maybe tomorrow morning, the route to town will be clear.
The route away from here.
“Finn.” Marcella’s voice is small. “We should probably talk about?—”
“Not yet.” The words come out harder than I expect. I take a deep breath. “Please. Not yet.”
