He drives away.
I stand on the sidewalk, watching his taillights disappear around the corner. His rejection hurts—but at least he talked to me.
He saidnot yet. He saidmaybe.
He said he still wants to give me what I don’t deserve.
I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.
The next morning,I try Nate.
Another snowstorm. Another appearance of Deputy Thorn and his shovel. I’ve been watching from the kitchen window for twenty minutes, working up the nerve.
His scent drifts up even from here—pine and woodsmoke, sharp and clean. My body responds the way it always does around him, no matter how many suppressants I take.
I know Nate. Knew him, anyway. He’s not like Theo—you can’t chase Nate down and make him talk. He shuts down. Goes cold. The harder you push, the further he retreats.
But I have to try.
I step onto the porch. “Nate.”
He doesn’t stop shoveling. Doesn’t look up. The scrape of metal on concrete is the only response I get.
“Can we talk? Please?”
“Ms. Donovan.” Still not looking. Still shoveling. “You should go inside. It’s cold.”
Ms. Donovan. Like I’m a stranger. Like we didn’t spend two years tangled together in every way possible.
“Nate, I just want to?—”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
The words are flat. Final. His scent has gone cold—the woodsmoke turned to ash.
I recognize that tone—the one he used when he was done. When the walls were up and nothing was getting through.
I could push. Could stand here and talk at his back until he’s forced to acknowledge me.
But that’s not how Nate works. It never was. Pushing him only makes him dig in deeper. The only way through Nate’s walls was patience. Time. Letting him come to you when he was ready.
I don’t have that luxury anymore. I used it up ten years ago.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “I’ll go.”
He doesn’t respond. Just keeps shoveling.
I go back inside. Close the door. Lean against it for a moment, pressing my palms to my eyes.
Then I move to the kitchen window and watch.
He finishes the driveway. Every inch of it. The walkway, the porch steps, the path to the mailbox. Thorough and methodical, the way he does everything. When he’s done, he puts the shovel back in his truck, climbs into the cab, and drives away.
He never once looks at the house.
Nate Thorn, who has been shoveling my grandmother’s driveway for ten years. Who never leaves a job unfinished. Who shows love through actions because words have always been hard for him.
He did the work. But he wouldn’t give me anything else.
