She takes it carefully. Inside: old flint, a metal compass, a folded topo map of the surrounding forest. A worn patch from the Hotshots.
“You can keep it,” I say. “For your emergency bag.”
She looks up, surprised. “Seriously?”
“Unless you name your first-aid kit something ridiculous. Then I’m taking it back.”
“I was thinking ‘Sir Gauze-a-Lot,’ actually.”
I snort. “Of course you were.”
We clean the rest of the drawer in silence, working in an easy rhythm. When we finish, she insists on making grilled cheese for dinner. I let her, hovering in the kitchen just to make sure she doesn’t start a grease fire.
We eat on the couch, knees touching, the fire popping quietly in the hearth.
Harper curls her fingers around her mug. “Do you ever miss it? The fire crew?”
“Every day.”
She nods like she understands, like she misses something too.
I watch her for a moment, silhouetted in the flickering light. She doesn’t press me for more. She never pushes. But somehow, she sees through the silence anyway. Like she’s figured out the code and knows when not to speak it aloud.
I set my mug down, suddenly restless.
“Come with me.”
She blinks. “Where?”
“Out back.”
She follows without question, bundling into her coat and tugging on her boots. We step out into the crisp night. The snowcrunches underfoot, but the wind has finally died. The sky is impossibly clear. Stars burn like cold fire above us.
I lead her down a narrow trail through the trees behind the cabin. We don’t speak. Just breathe.
At the edge of the woods, the trees fall away to a small clearing. In the center: a stone bench I carved years ago, before everything got too heavy.
Harper lets out a quiet breath. “This is beautiful.”
I sit first, gesturing for her to join me.
We sit shoulder to shoulder, our breath misting in the air, the whole world silent but for the distant howl of a coyote.
“This is where I come when it gets loud in my head,” I say.
Harper doesn’t look at me. “It’s where you go to be alone.”
“Usually.”
She nods slowly. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
I don’t respond. Just lean back and let the silence stretch between us like a thread—tight, fragile, but unbroken.
She places her hand on my thigh.
Something in me snaps.
Without a word, I reach out and grab her waist, tugging her forward until she’s straddling my lap.
