SABRINA
The cabin feels different in the gray half-light before dawn. The storm has finally broken. No more howling wind, no more snow slamming the windows like fists. Just a heavy, expectant quiet. The kind that comes right before everything changes.
I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, knees drawn up, wrapped in the quilt that still smells like us. Beck is at the window, back to me, shoulders rigid, watching the world reappear in pale streaks of light. He’s been like this for twenty minutes—silent, still, every muscle coiled like he’s already bracing for the fight.
I know why.
The pass will be open by noon. Roads will be plowed. Phones will work. The sheriff will answer. And Ethan—my brother, my betrayer—will have no more excuses to stay away.
Beck turns then, and our eyes meet across the room. He doesn’t speak at first. Just crosses the floor in three long strides and drops to one knee in front of me so we’re level. His hands find my face—gentle, reverent, thumbs brushing the shadows undermy eyes like he can wipe away every sleepless hour. “You’re thinking about running again,” he says. Not accusing. Just fact.
I shake my head. “I’m thinking about staying. And what staying might cost you.”
His jaw tightens. “I already told you?—”
“I know what you told me.” I cover his hands with mine, pressing them harder against my cheeks. “I know you’d die for me. I know you’d kill for me. But I don’t want either of those things. I want you alive. I want you here. I want mornings where the only thing we argue about is who makes better coffee.”
A ghost of a smile flickers across his mouth. “You make terrible coffee.”
I laugh despite everything. It sounds thin. Fragile. “Exactly. I want that. I want stupid, ordinary fights. I want to learn how you like your eggs. I want to fight over closet space. I want to grow old and argue about whose turn it is to chop wood.”
His eyes darken. “Sabrina?—”
“No. Listen.” I lean forward until our foreheads touch. “Last night I asked you to marry me someday. I meant it. But I need you to understand something: I’m not asking for a hero. I’m asking for a partner. If we do this—if we face him today—I need you to promise me you’ll come home to me. Not in a body bag. Not as a martyr. Alive. Whole. Mine.”
His breath catches. Rough. Audibly. He pulls back just enough to look at me—really look. Searching for cracks. Finding only certainty. “I promise,” he says. Voice low. Gravel-rough. “I’ll come home to you. Every time. No matter what it takes.”
I nod, and then swallow hard. Then I kiss him—slow, deep, tasting salt and fear and the fierce, unshakable love that’s somehow grown bigger in the dark. When we break apart he doesn’t let go. Just rests his forehead against mine again.
“I need to tell you something too,” he murmurs.
I wait.
“I’ve never said this to anyone. Not my father. Not the men I served with. Not even myself, out loud.” He exhales. Shaky. “I was afraid of being needed. Afraid if someone depended on me, I’d fail them. Like I failed him. Like I couldn’t keep the people I loved from leaving. Or dying. Or hating me.”
My heart twists.
“So I stayed alone. Built walls. Took jobs that kept me moving. Until you slid off that road and looked at me like I was already enough. Just by being there. Just by choosing to stop.”
Tears burn behind my eyes again. I don’t try to stop them.
“You’re not failing me,” I whisper. “You’re the first person who’s ever made me feel like I could stop running and still be safe. Like I could be broken and still be wanted.”
He kisses me again—this time softer. Slower. Like he’s sealing the words between us. When he pulls back he stands, offers his hand. “Come on. Shower. Food. Then we call the Sheriff Silas James. Then we wait.”
I take his hand, letting him pull me up, and let him lead me into the bathroom. The shower is small—barely room for both of us—but we make it work. Hot water cascades over us. Steam clouds the mirror. He washes my hair with careful fingers, massaging my scalp until I’m boneless against his chest. I soap his back,tracing every scar, every ridge of muscle, memorizing him like I might never get another chance.
When the water starts to cool he turns me to face him. Lifts me so my legs wrap around his waist. Presses me against the tile—warm from the steam, slick—and slides inside me without a word.
It’s not frantic.
It’s not desperate.
It’s deliberate. Slow. Deep. Every thrust measured, every withdrawal torturous, like he’s trying to imprint himself into my body so no matter what happens today, part of him stays with me.
I cling to his shoulders. Bury my face in his neck. Whisper his name like a heartbeat.
He doesn’t speak. Just moves. Just holds me. Just loves me with every careful roll of his hips until we both shatter—quietly, together, trembling in the falling water.
