"Except for college. I went to Seattle for four years, studied education. But I came back after." She's quiet for a moment. "My dad got sick. He needed someone."
"The man in the photo? In your living room?"
She turns to me, surprised. "You noticed that?"
"I notice everything." Especially things about you, I don't add.
"Yeah. That's my dad. He passed away two years ago." Her voice is steady, but I hear the grief underneath.
"I'm sorry."
"Thank you. He was... he was a good man. Did his best after my mom died. It was just the two of us for a long time."
I want to reach out, take her hand, offer comfort. But it feels too soon. Too presumptuous. So I just nod and keep driving.
"Is that why you volunteer at the center?" I ask. "Because you understand what it's like to lose people?"
"Maybe partly. But also because I like helping. It sounds cheesy, but I genuinely enjoy being there for others. Making things a little easier, a little brighter." She shifts in her seat. "What about you? Why do you volunteer there?"
"Same reason, I guess. The guys there—John, Red, Eddie—they get it. What it's like to serve, to come back different than you left. They don't need explanations or apologies. They just... understand."
"That must be nice. Being understood."
"It is." I glance at her. "You understand things too, though. I can tell."
"What do you mean?"
"The way you looked at me at the auction. Like you could see past the surface to something underneath. Not many people can do that."
She's quiet, and when I glance over, she's staring out the windshield with a small smile on her face.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing. I'm glad to come… to be here," she says softly.
I let a low smile tug at my lips, voice rough. "Me too… glad I’m here, with you."
We turn onto the private road leading to the cabin, trees thick on either side, snow gleaming in the moonlight. The world feels smaller out here, like it's just us and the forest and the stars overhead.
"Wow," Iris breathes when the cabin comes into view.
It sits in a clearing, timber and stone, windows glowing warm from the lights Jonah left on. Snow blankets the roof and the surrounding pines, and smoke curls from the chimney.
"It's beautiful," she says.
"Jonah's family built it years ago. They use it for weekends, holidays. He said we could have it for as long as we need."
I park and kill the engine. For a moment, we just sit there, both of us staring at the cabin like it holds answers to questions we haven't asked yet.
"Nervous?" I ask.
"A little," she admits. "You?"
"Yeah."
She turns to look at me, surprised. "Really? You don't seem nervous."
"I'm good at hiding it. Military training."
