The generator had stalled.
Not sabotage.
Just cold.
I crossed to the door, cracked it open a few inches, and stepped onto the porch. The night air bit hard, sharp enough to wake me all the way through. I crouched beside the shed, flipped the switch, and listened as the generator struggled, then caught again with a low, steady growl.
Lights flickered back on inside the cabin.
Good.
But the quiet stayed wrong.
I went back in and locked the door behind me.
Rylie was sitting up on the couch now, blanket clutched tight around her shoulders, eyes tracking me like she needed to confirm I was still real.
“The power—” she started.
“Generator hiccup,” I said. “It happens.”
Her gaze dropped to the weapon in my hand. Then back to my face. “You didn’t seem surprised.”
“I wasn’t.”
That didn’t reassure her.
She shifted, pulling her knees up, making herself smaller. The firelight caught the tension in her face—the tightness around her eyes, the way her jaw locked like she was bracing for impact that hadn’t come yet.
I holstered the weapon slowly and set it on the table within reach. Non-threatening. Intentional.
Then I crouched in front of her.
Not close.
Just… present.
“You okay?” I asked.
She nodded immediately. Too quickly. “Yeah. I just—everything went quiet all at once.”
“I know.”
Her eyes lifted to mine. “Does that ever stop bothering you?”
I didn’t pretend not to understand what she meant.
“No,” I said. “You just learn what quiet really sounds like.”
She swallowed. “And what did that quiet mean?”
“That we’re still alone,” I answered. “And still safe.”
Her shoulders dropped a fraction, like she’d been holding them up with effort alone.
“Can I—” She hesitated, then shook her head. “Never mind.”
I waited.
