The message is a cold stone in my gut. She’s already assuming I’m done. Already planning to handle it alone because I’ve proven I can’t be relied on. Because I’ve done exactly what every other person in her life has done: made her believe she’s too much work.
I type and delete three responses before settling onI’m not backing out. I’ll be there.
She doesn’t respond.
I check my phone every five minutes for the next hour. Nothing.
The sun sets behind the mountains, painting the snow orange and gold through the window. The light fades to purple, then gray, then black. Inside the cabin, I build up the fire and try toconvince myself I’m doing the right thing by creating distance. By protecting her from my inability to be what she needs.
But sitting here alone in the space that still smells like her, I know the truth.
I’m not protecting her. I’m protecting myself.
And in doing so, I’m proving every fear she’s ever had about being too much work, about people leaving when things get hard.
Tomorrow, I’ll fix this. Tomorrow, I’ll show up at her shop and prove I’m not going anywhere. Tomorrow, I’ll find the words to explain that the distance isn’t about her. It’s about me figuring out that good things don’t have to be temporary.
But tonight, I sit alone with my guilt and my wanting.
Punishing myself doesn’t honor what I lost. It just ensures I keep losing.
Tomorrow, I choose differently.
Tomorrow, I choose her.
Chapter seven
Tilly
He’s standing in my shop when I arrive at dawn.
I stop in the doorway, keys still in my hand, and for a heartbeat, I can’t move. Relief and surprise tangle in my chest so tightly I have to grip the doorframe to steady myself. I didn’t let myself hope he’d be here. I didn’t let myself imagine his truck parked outside or his tools spread across my floor.
But he’s here.
Tools line the floor in neat rows. The armoire sits exactly where we planned it, and he’s measuring the wall for the floating shelves with a tape measure and pencil tucked behind his ear.
He turns when the door opens. His eyes find mine. Yesterday’s distance fills the space between us, heavy and unspoken. His jaw is tight, shadowed with stubble. He’s wearing his work clothes, jeans worn soft at the knees, and a thermal shirt that stretches across his shoulders.
“Morning,” he says.
“I didn’t expect you today.” The words are soft. “I thought... after yesterday, I thought you might need more time.”
Something flashes in his eyes. Guilt, maybe. Regret. “I needed one night to get my head straight. That’s all.”
“Okay.” I set my bag down, giving my hands something to do. “I was letting you have your space. I wasn’t going to push.”
“I know.” He crosses the room and stands before me. “That’s one of the things I love about you. You let me work through it instead of demanding answers I wasn’t ready to give.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do.” His hand settles on my shoulder, thumb brushing the curve where my neck meets collarbone. “You trusted me with your vulnerable places, the parts you usually hide. I owe you the same.”
I lean into the touch because fighting this feels harder than surrender. “Okay.”
He takes a breath, and I watch his chest expand under the thermal. “I was a team lead when the fire happened. I made the call to go in based on the information we had. The structure failed faster than anyone predicted, and I lost someone.” His voice is steady, but his eyes carry weight. “I left the firehouse after that. Came across the country from the Shenandoah Mountains in Virginia, and built the cabin. I tried to figure out how to live with what I couldn’t fix.”
My fingers find his wrist, wrapping around the solidity of him. “That wasn’t your fault.”
