By the time I realize I’m interfering, I’m already halfway down my steps.
Her yard opens straight to the lake — no fence, nothing dividing my world from hers. She looks even smaller out here, swallowed by the openness, by the silence, by her own oversized clothes.
Smaller than she pretended to be yesterday.
“I can help,” I say when I’m close enough.
She startles, jumping like she didn’t hear me approach. That reaction hits me somewhere I don’t like. People who flinch that easily… they’ve learned to.
She pushes the loose hair out of her face and straightens her shoulders as if that alone can make her less breakable.
My eyes drag over her outfit. She’s drowning in this oversized sweater — sleeves past her wrists — but with black leggings and heavy, lace-up utility boots.
It’s humid. Warm. Definitely June.
Why the hell is she dressed like it’s winter?
Or hiding in plain sight?
Her gaze flicks over me, cautious but not timid, like she’s constantly gauging threat level. “Lily told me your name. Ethan.”
“I didn’t ask,” I say, a reflex I don’t bother softening. I don’t need her thinking this is neighborly kindness.
She shrugs, but it’s the kind that collapses in on itself a little. “And I guess you know mine now.”
“Lucky,” I confirm. “Yes. I heard.”
Her mouth lifts into a strange, tired half-smile, as if she’s daring me to make something of it, but too exhausted to care if I do.
I nod toward the axe lying by her boot. “What exactly are you chopping wood for?”
She wipes her forehead with the sleeve of her sweater, which is ridiculous because she’s sweating inside that thing. “I was cold last night.”
“It’s summer.”
“Not where I’m from,” she shoots back immediately, chin lifting. “This is winter. This is Arctic. This is—”
“It’s eighty degrees,” I interrupt, unable to help myself.
“Yeah,” she says, completely serious. “Winter.”
I stare at her. She stares right back.
She’s either unhinged or funny, and I can’t tell which.
Maybe both.
And, annoyingly, I don’t hate it.
I almost walk away. I should. She clearly doesn’t want help, and I don’t want whatever chaos is following her around. She sees me shift my weight, sees the turn in my shoulder.
“I can offer you coffee,” she blurts, “if you chop the wood.”
I freeze mid-step.
Coffee. She’s bribing me with coffee.
Of course she is.
