I get out, walk around, and open her door. She steps down into the snow, bouquet tucked against her chest. I take her backpack. She adjusts her purse strap like it weighs a hundred pounds.
We crunch up to the porch.
The second I open the door, a blur of fur rockets toward us.
Nugget hits the entryway like a cannonball, nails skittering, tail wagging so hard his whole body wiggles.
He barks once, sharp, then stops dead when he sees her.
His head tilts.
His ears perk.
Then he trots right up to her boots and sniffs like he’s conducting an investigation.
She freezes.
I watch her shoulders go rigid like she’s bracing for a bite.
Nugget sneezes, then presses his nose against her leg and wags harder.
Her breath escapes in a shaky laugh.
I bend down and scoop him up.
The moment Nugget is in my arms, something in me changes. I feel it. My whole face softens before I can stop it, because this dog has been my only constant for the past couple of months, and he loves me like it’s his job.
Nugget licks my jaw.
Nova stares.
She looks genuinely surprised, like she expected me to be a robot made of scowls.
I clear my throat and set Nugget down. He immediately zooms into the living room like he’s showing off the place.
I step inside and gesture vaguely. “This is it.”
The cabin is simple. One bedroom. One bathroom. A small room Nugget has claimed as his own, mostly because he’s amenace and likes having a space to stash stolen socks. Living room with a couch, two recliners, a fireplace that’s been the difference between comfort and freezing more times than I can count. A small kitchen off to the side, functional, not fancy.
She turns slowly, taking it in. Her shoulders drop another fraction.
Good.
I set her backpack near the couch, then look at her. “You won a weekend here. You take the bedroom.”
Her eyes widen. “No, I can take the couch.”
“It’s not a discussion,” I say, then soften it because her flinch is immediate. “You take the bed. I’m fine on the couch.”
She hesitates, then nods slowly, like she’s filing it away under “unexpected kindness” and doesn’t know what to do with it.
She hugs the bouquet closer, then glances at the hallway that leads to the bedroom and bathroom.
“Can I,” she starts, then clears her throat. “Can I take a shower?”
I should say yes and keep it normal.
“Yeah,” I answer, voice steady.
