“Moon Ridge has a high tolerance for complicated stories,” Elena says. “Some of us come to this small town because staying where we were wasn’t safe anymore.”
“Yeah?” I keep my tone gentle.
She meets my eyes, something guarded flickering behind hers. “Yeah.”
I’ll definitely be looking forward to a coffee date with her in the near future. It sounds like we have a lot in common.
Across the street, Boyd and Atlas cheer as Silas launches a perfect spiral and T.J. catches it like a champ.
“They seem like good guys,” she says, watching the men.
“They are.” I put as much weight as Ican into my words, but it could never be enough to convey all that I think about them.
“Good. So, do you think you might be sticking around? Moon Ridge keeps secrets, but it also keeps people.”
I give her a smile. “I think I might.”
I don’t feel like a visitor anymore.
I’m starting to feel like I belong.
And I have a feeling this town has more stories to tell.
That night, Atlas, Boyd, Silas, and I all end up in the living room together. The men’s typical routines usually have them heading off in separate directions after dinner, but ever since the attack, quiet moments like this are becoming more common.
Silas is in the chair that gives him a view of both the fireplace and the windows, as if he can’t fully choose comfort over vigilance.
Atlas sits at one end of the couch, a mug of hot cider in one hand. Boyd is at the other end with a pillow propped under his injured arm. His good arm is stretched across the back of the cushions.
I’m between the two of them, feet curled under me and a blanket over my lap.
It’s cozy and warm, but I’m restless. When Atlas notices and lifts a brow, I say, “I keep thinking about what you all risked for me.”
Boyd’s hand drops to my shoulder and squeezes. “You make it sound dramatic.”
I make a face at him, wide-eyed. Sometimes it’s hard to know when he’s being serious.
“I’d do it again right now,” Atlas says.
“Without hesitation.” Silas adds.
“And there’s no need to keep thanking us,” Atlas says. “We’re family.”
I lean closer to him, snuggling into his side before I reach for Boyd’s hand. He laces his fingers with mine like he’d happily hold on forever.
When I look over at Silas, he gives me one of his almost-smiles. Then he gets up, crosses the space, and sits on the floor, his back against the couch, his legs pointing toward the fire. He lets his head fall back against my knee.
“The next time someone tries to climb this mountain, they’ll regret it, too,” Boyd says.
Atlas tips my head toward him and kisses the side of my forehead. “There won’t be a next time.”
I lean into him and let my eyes close.
For the first time since Preston shook up my life and sent me running into a storm, the snowglobe truly feels peaceful.
Complicated, but warm and wonderful and real.
And ours.
