Chapter 1 - Sofia
Mom was here.
The thought settles in my chest as I drive into Aspenbrook, quiet and steady. I roll down the window and let the air rush in, breathing it deep into my lungs. This place looks like the small towns I’ve only ever seen in movies. Wild trees instead of manicured rows. Houses that don’t look alike. Fields stretching wide beyond a main street that’s barely five blocks long. The air smells clean, alive, untouched. No smog. No noise. No pressure pressing in from every side.
For the first time in years, I can breathe.
After Mom died, my dad and stepmom wrapped my life in layers of protection. College close to home. No risks. No mistakes. No room to fall. They meant well. They always did. But somewhere between their good intentions and their fear of losing me too, I stopped moving forward. I did everything right and still felt like I was standing still, sheltered to the point of suffocating.
Coming here feels like stepping out of a cage I didn’t realize had been locked.
This town is part of my mother’s past, a place she once loved, and maybe that’s why it already feels familiar. Like she’s guidingme here, nudging me toward a life that’s mine. I’m finally taking a risk. Finally choosing the real world over safety.
The mechanical voice of my GPS tells me to turn into a narrow driveway, and I slow as it opens onto a shared property. To one side sits a small one-bedroom guesthouse. Beyond it, a two-story farmhouse rises, solid and quietly impressive.
My attention goes straight to the main house.
Brick and white-painted wood, weathered but lovingly kept. Sturdy in a way that suggests time has passed here gently, not harshly. It looks like it belongs to another century and to this one all at once, the kind of place built to endure storms, seasons, and lives lived inside its walls. There’s something open about it, too. Not grand. Just… steady.
The guesthouse mirrors it in style, all brick with white trim, but it’s newer, smaller, set a respectful distance away. Wildflowers press against the outer walls, unruly and bright, as if no one’s bothered to tame them. Or maybe they chose not to. Either way, it feels intentional.
Whoever owns this place cares. Not just about how it looks, but about what it holds. About making something last.
I like that. I like the quiet pride in it.
Inside, I unload my two duffel bags and backpacks and take a slow look around. A cozy living room with a compact kitchen tucked beside it. Front and back doors. A small bathroom. A bedroom just big enough for a bed, a dresser, and built-in cubbies lining the wall. The closet is barely more than an afterthought, but I don’t mind as this house offers everything I need.
I look around the outdoor area since I like being outside, especially since we’re in an area where there are fireflies. As I setup a lawn chair I bought near what looks like an old fire pit, I hear a sharp whistle.
My chestnut braid slips over my shoulder as I lift a hand to shield my eyes from the afternoon sun. That’s when I see him.
A man stands on the last step of the wraparound porch, broad and solid, like he belongs to the land itself. He’s still on the far side of the yard, yet the moment he looks at me, my body reacts as if he were already close. Something tightens in my chest, sharp and instinctive, and my breath stutters.
He steps down from the porch and starts toward me.
Even from here, there’s nothing distant about him. His grey-blue eyes lock onto mine, slow and assessing, and heat curls low in my belly without warning. The look isn’t welcoming. It isn’t unkind. It’s controlled, unreadable, and it makes my pulse kick harder all the same. Sun-darkened skin. A hint of silver at his temples. Rugged in a way that speaks of long days, hard work, and a life that hasn’t been easy.
My skin prickles as his attention stays fixed on me.
He’s dressed simply, a plain black T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders and jeans worn soft from use, thin enough to trace the powerful lines beneath. He doesn’t move fast. He doesn’t need to. Every step he takes feels deliberate, confident, like he’s used to commanding space without ever asking for it.
Then he whistles.
The sharp sound cuts through the quiet, and I jump, my heart slamming against my ribs.
I swallow and take a hesitant step forward, suddenly too aware of myself, of my body, of the fact that I’ve already unloaded my bags without so much as introducing myself. Should I have checked in first? Knocked on his door? Askedpermission before acting like I belonged here? The questions blur together as he closes the distance between us.
Especially when his hand moves toward his back pocket.
His shirt shifts just enough to reveal a glimpse of hard muscle, but my eyes snag lower, drawn to the sharp dip of his hip, the deep line that disappears beneath his jeans. My mouth goes dry.
“Sofia, yes?” he asks.
“Y-yes,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
The fact that a man like him is standing here, talking to me, short-circuits something in my brain. He’s rugged and closed-off, the kind of stoic presence that should be intimidating. And somehow, that only makes him more attractive. Gorgeous, even.
Then I hear a laugh.
