CALDER HALE
The roadup the mountain is quiet at this hour. It always is. Dawn hasn’t fully broken yet, just a thin gray light stretching over the ridges, and my headlights carve a narrow tunnel through the trees. Snow crunches under my tires in that steady, familiar rhythm that settles something in my chest.
This stretch of road is mine in a way nothing else is. I know every curve. Every dip where ice likes to form. Every place the guardrail is bent from tourists who didn’t respect the mountain enough.
I drive it slow and steady, one hand on the wheel, thermos wedged in the cupholder. The cab smells like pine and motor oil and the faint ghost of last night’s fire. My house is already shrinking behind me in my rearview mirror, tucked up high where the trees thicken and the air feels cleaner.
Most people don’t understand why I live up there alone.
I don’t feel the need to explain it.
The town comes into view as the sun finally starts to crest the peaks. Warm light spills over rooftops and smoke curls from chimneys. It’s a small place. Tight knit. The kind of town whereeveryone knows what truck you drive and what you ordered for breakfast last Tuesday.
I pull into Mae’s diner out of habit more than decision. My truck settles into its usual spot along the side of the building. The sign in the window catches my eye as I climb out.
Hearts. Pink and red taped up everywhere. A banner stretched across the glass about Valentine specials.
I huff a quiet breath through my nose. Mae has always liked a theme. Christmas lights in November. Pumpkins in September. Valentine’s decorations two weeks early and no apologies about it.
The bell over the door jingles when I step inside. Warmth wraps around me immediately, thick with the smell of coffee and bacon grease. The place is already humming. A couple of loggers at the counter. Old man Reeves folded over a newspaper in the corner booth.
And her.
I notice her before she notices me. I always do.
I’ve never been a man who puts much stock in angels, but if they exist, one of them is pouring coffee ten feet away from me. Wren’s hair is dark and thick, pulled into a loose braid that hangs over her shoulder and brushes the curve of her chest every time she turns. She’s small compared to me. Most people are. At six and a half feet I’m used to looking down at the world, but with her the difference feels sharper. She wouldn’t reach much past my shoulder if I stood beside her. She’s all soft lines and quiet curves tucked into that diner uniform, warm and undeniably beautiful, the kind of woman a man instinctively wants to step in front of without thinking twice.
There’s a carefulness to the way she moves that pulls at something low in my gut. She keeps herself compact, polite, like she’s trying not to be a burden on the space around her. It makes a protective instinct rise up fast and sharp. I find myself trackingevery step she takes, every flicker of tension in her shoulders. When she smiles at a customer it lights her whole face, and I have the sudden, steady certainty that I’d like to be the reason that smile comes easier. The thought settles heavy and certain in my chest. Watching her, I feel the quiet urge to make sure she’s safe, fed, and looked after, and the strength of it surprises me.
She’s moving between tables with a coffee pot in her hand, dark hair pulled back in a loose knot that’s already slipping. There’s a pencil tucked behind her ear and a small crease between her brows like she’s concentrating on not spilling a drop.
Wren.
It took me a week to learn her name and another to say it out loud. Mae introduced us one morning when I came in and Wren nearly walked into me carrying a tray stacked too high.
“Calder,” Mae had said, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “This is Wren. She’s saving my life.”
Wren had looked up at me with wide eyes and a nervous half smile. “Hi.”
Her voice had been soft but steady. I remember thinking she looked like a startled deer trying very hard not to show it.
A month later and that impression hasn’t changed much. She’s steadier on her feet now. Faster. But there’s still a tightness to her shoulders, a watchfulness in the way her gaze flicks around the room like she’s cataloging exits.
I shrug out of my jacket and hang it on the back of my usual chair at the counter. Mae looks up from the register and grins.
“There he is,” she says. “Thought you might’ve frozen solid up that mountain.”
“Not yet,” I answer. My voice always sounds rough in the mornings, like gravel grinding together. I clear my throat and slide onto the stool.
Mae pours me coffee without asking. “Your girl’s been running circles around us this morning,” she says, nodding toward Wren. “Haven’t had to refill my own cup once.”
I glance over again. Wren is laughing at something one of the loggers says, but the sound is small. Careful. Like she’s testing it.
“She’s doing good,” I say.
Mae hums in agreement. “Better than good. Girl works like she’s got something to prove.”
Something in that sits heavy. I’ve seen that kind of work before. People who run themselves ragged because stopping feels dangerous.
