"Did something happen?" I shift on the rug to watch him. "With the storm?"
"Snow’s drifting." He grabs a water bottle, downing half in one go. "Might take out a few trees if the wind picks up. Nothing for you to worry about, Avery."
He uses my name like a shield. Avery. NotLittle Bird.
"I can worry if I want to." I try to keep the mood light. "It is my cabin down there getting buried, remember?"
He freezes, bottle halfway to his mouth. His eyes go distant, staring at the stainless steel refrigerator door. Seeing something else. Something violent.
"Your cabin is fine," he says, voice dropping an octave. "I made sure of it."
"You went all the way down there?"
He sets the bottle down.Thack. The sound echoes too loudly. "I said it’s fine."
He turns, stalking toward the hallway. "I need to radio Logan. Update him on road conditions. Stay by the fire. You’re trembling."
He disappears before I can argue.
The heavy oak door to his office clicks shut. The lock slides home.
I’m alone, but the silence feels heavy. Loaded. I look around the cabin that has become my entire world. Exposed beams, stone hearth, furniture built to withstand a siege. It feels safe. Permanent.
But the man who built it slips through my fingers.
I stand, testing my weight. My ankle throbs—a dull ache—but holds. I limp toward the kitchen, rinsing my mug. The window looks out onto a wall of white. Snow falls thick and fast, erasing the world.
I wonder what he’s telling Logan. Why he locked the door.
Restlessness itches under my skin. I can’t sit and wait for him to decide to be Oliver again. I need to be useful.
The wood stack next to the hearth is low. Oliver usually handles it, hauling massive armfuls like they weigh nothing, but I’m not helpless.
I limp to the heavy timber door. The mudroom is freezing, smelling of damp earth and pine resin. I grab three logs from the stack, rough bark digging into my forearms.
My hip bumps a narrow table in the corner. A stack of mail slides to the floor.
"Dammit," I whisper, balancing the wood against my chest as I squat to pick up the envelopes.
Mostly junk. Flyers, catalogs. But underneath lies a small, battered wooden box. It must have sat on the edge, hidden. It hit the floor hard, latch springing open.
I freeze.
Rough-hewn, dark stained oak. Contents spilled onto the slate.
I shouldn't look. This is his privacy. The part of him he locks away. But the glint of silver chain catches my eye. Curiosity wins.
I set the logs down. Reach out. Fingers brush cold metal.
Dog tags.
Old, scratched, dull with wear. I run my thumb over the raised lettering.
GUNNAR, OLIVER. O POS. NO PREF.
The chain is heavy in my palm. Cold, but it burns. I knew he was military—he moves with disciplined lethality, wears the scars—but the tags make it real. Put a history to the silence.
I pick up the other items.
