“Nothing,” she says quickly, then huffs a quiet laugh. “Sorry. I’m just… taking it all in, I guess.”
I lean back on my heels. The fire pops softly between us. “You’re safe here,” I say.
Her fingers tighten around the mug. She nods, like she’s trying to convince herself of the same thing.
She studies me for another beat, and I can almost see the thoughts lining up behind her eyes. The way her gaze traces over me is different from the way most people look. Not assessing. Not judging. Just… noticing.
I’m aware of what she sees. Six and a half feet of man taking up space in front of the fire. My shoulders fill out the old flannel I threw on this morning. Years of hauling lumber and fixing things have carved muscle into my arms and chest, not the polished kind you get in a gym but the solid kind that comes from work. My beard is trimmed short, more practical than stylish. My hair’s probably a mess from the wind, light brown and stubborn no matter how I cut it.
Her eyes linger on my face. On my eyes. People always comment on the color. Blue edged in gray, my mother used to say. Storm eyes.
“What do you do for work?” she asks suddenly.
The question hangs in the air. Simple on the surface. Not so simple underneath.
I hesitate.
The past is a thing I keep locked down tight. Not because I’m ashamed of it. Because it belongs to another life. One that doesn’t fit cleanly into the quiet I’ve built up here.
“I work from home,” I say finally. It’s not a lie. Just not the whole truth. “After the military, I decided I’d had enough of answering to other people. I like the peace that comes with working for myself.”
Her brows lift slightly. “The military?”
“Yeah.”
She doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask for details. There’s a flicker of something in her expression. Respect, maybe. Or understanding.
“That makes sense,” she says softly. “This place… it feels peaceful.”
I look around my house through her eyes. The firelight dancing across the walls. The steady presence of the mountain pressing in from all sides. The quiet that settles deep in your bones if you let it.
“It is,” I agree.
Outside, the storm finally hits in full force. Wind howls around the corners of the house. Snow slams against the windows in thick waves. The world beyond these walls disappears completely.
Wren watches it for a moment, her grip tightening on the mug. Fear flickers there, quick and sharp. Then she looks back at me, and some of that tension eases.
Bear lifts his head and nudges her knee. She smiles down at him and scratches behind his ears. The sight of her curled up on my couch with my dog at her feet and my blanket around her shoulders settles something steady inside me.
She looks like she belongs in the warmth. Like she’s been cold for too long.
“You hungry?” I ask.
She blinks, like the question surprises her. “A little.”
“I’ll make something,” I say, pushing to my feet.
She opens her mouth like she might protest, then closes it. “Okay.”
I head for the door before she can argue. The groceries are still in the truck bed, and if this storm keeps building the way it sounds, I want everything inside and squared away.
Cold slams into me the second I step onto the porch. The wind cuts through my jacket and fills my lungs with ice. Snow is already piling against the steps. I move fast, hauling crates out of the truck and carrying them inside two at a time.
By the time I come back for the second load, the front door creaks open.
Wren stands there wrapped in my blanket, bare feet peeking out from under the hem. The heat from the house spills around her in a soft halo. For a second she looks like she belongs framed in that doorway. Warm. Safe.
“I can help,” she says, already stepping onto the porch.
