"I... I’d like that," I whisper. "But I’m expensive."
Oliver chuckles, a low rumble I feel in my toes. "I can afford you."
He kisses me then, hard and quick, before pulling back. "Get your boots. We’re going down the ridge. I want to show you what I did last night."
The trek down to my property goes easier in the daylight, though the snow remains deep. Oliver walks ahead of me, breaking the trail, his massive boots packing down the powder so I can follow in his wake. He carries a rifle slung over his shoulder—casual, like a backpack—and his head stays on a swivel, scanning the tree line. The Vanguard, always watching.
When my cabin comes into view, I stop dead.
The rotting ruin from three days ago has vanished.
The treacherous porch railing is gone. In its place, thick, treated lumber stands bolted together with heavy iron brackets. It lookssolid enough to stop a truck. The sagging front steps have been leveled and reinforced. And the door...
The flimsy wooden panel that used to rattle in the wind has been braced with steel plates. A shiny new deadbolt glints in the sun.
"Oliver," I breathe, my hand going to my mouth.
He stops and turns back, watching me. He looks unsure for the first time, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I didn't have time to paint it. And the roof still needs work come spring. But it’s secure. No one’s kicking that door in."
I walk forward, stepping onto the porch. No creaking. No swaying. Just s solid wood beneath my feet.
I run my hand over the smooth wood of the new railing. He did this in the freezing dark. He worked while I slept, driven by guilt and a desperate need to keep me safe.
"You built a fortress," I say, turning to look at him.
"I built a perimeter," he corrects, stepping up onto the porch with me. He looms over me, blocking out the sun, blocking out the rest of the world. "Small, but yours. Safe now."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the keys again. The brass one for this door. The silver one for his.
He holds them out.
"Your choice, Avery," he says, his voice rough. "You can stay here. It’s safe. You have your independence. You have your home."
I look at the brass key. It represents everything I thought I wanted when I came to these mountains. A place of my own. No foster parents, no landlords, no rules but mine.
Then I look at the silver key.
I look at the man holding it. The man who carried me through a blizzard. The man who taught me how to hold a screwdriver and then made me come apart with just his hands.
The man who sees my need for independence and doesn't try to crush it, but builds a foundation under it so I don't fall.
"I don't want to be alone anymore," I say softly.
I reach out and take the keys. Both of them.
I slide the silver key into my pocket. Then I take the brass key and close my fist around it, holding it tight against my heart.
"I’m keeping the cabin," I say. "It’s my project. I’m going to fix it up."
Oliver’s jaw tightens, his gaze never leaving mine. "Okay."
"But I’m not sleeping here," I continue.
His eyes snap to mine.
"My bed is terrible," I say, stepping closer to him, until the toes of my boots bump against his. "And it’s cold. And the coffee is bad."
"Is that right?" A spark of hope flares in his eyes.
