“Do what?”
“Shrink.”
Her eyes widen. I’ve surprised her. Hell, I’ve surprised myself.
“I know I’m not—” I stop, grind my teeth, force the words out. “I’m not good with people. Being around them. Talking. Any of it. But that’s my problem, not yours. You don’t have to disappear to make me comfortable.”
Marcella stares at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, her arms uncross. Her shoulders square. She stands a little taller.
“Okay,” she says softly. “I won’t.”
The lights flicker. Once. Twice.
We both look up at the ceiling, then at each other.
“Generator?” Marcella asks.
“Solar panels, mostly. Generator backup when that fails.” I’m already moving toward the control panel by the door, checking the readings. “Storm’s probably covered the panels. Should switch to backup automatically.”
The lights flicker again, then go out entirely.
For a moment, the only illumination comes from the fire in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Marcella’sface is golden in the firelight, her eyes wide but not panicked. She’s watching me, waiting for my lead.
Something clicks in the utility closet. The generator humming to life. A moment later, the lights come back on—dimmer than before, running on backup power.
“That’s going to happen a few more times tonight,” I tell her. “When it does, we switch to fire and candles. Save the generator fuel for essentials.”
She nods, processing. “Okay. What can I do to help?”
The question catches me off guard. Moira never asks what she can do—she just does things, bulldozing over my preferences with sisterly certainty. But Marcella is asking. Waiting. Respecting that this is my space, my routine, my survival plan.
“The short ribs,” I hear myself say. “If they’re really as good as they smell, we shouldn’t let them go to waste.”
Her face lights up again. That same brightening I saw earlier, like sunshine breaking through clouds. It does something uncomfortable to my chest.
“They’re better than they smell,” she says. “I promise.”
She moves to the kitchen, already in motion, already filling the space with her warmth and her energy and her presence. I watch her for a moment—the confident way she handles the cookware, the little hum that starts up as she checks on the braise, the way she moves like cooking is breathing, natural and necessary.
This is going to be a problem.
I know it like I know the weight of a rifle, the sound of incoming fire, the exact second before everything goes wrong. Thiswoman, with her warmth and her food and her way of looking at me like I’m worth seeing—she’s going to be a problem.
Because I don’t want her to leave.
The thought arrives unwelcome, undeniable. Somewhere between the moment she turned around with that wooden spoon raised like a weapon and now, watching her move through my kitchen like she belongs there, something shifted. Some wall I’ve spent four years building developed a crack.
The wind howls. The lights flicker again. The fire pops and settles, sending a scatter of sparks up the chimney.
I have nowhere to run. No mission to disappear into. No excuse to maintain the distance that’s kept me safe for four years.
Just this woman. This storm. This ranger station that suddenly feels like both a refuge and a trap.
You chose this, I remind myself.You told her to stay.
I did. And I’d do it again. A hundred times. A thousand. Because the alternative—watching her drive off that mountain into whiteout conditions, knowing I could have stopped her—isn’t something I could live with.
But that’s not the only reason.
