The cabin looks smaller than I remember.
Maybe because I haven’t been up here in a while.
Maybe because my nerves are shot to hell.
Or maybe because I never imagined pulling up to it with half my world burning behind me.
Smoke still clings to the truck when I kill the engine. The headlights cut twin paths through the dark, catching the edges of the pine trees, the wooden porch, the fishing poles leaning where we left them last spring.
This place is supposed to be quiet, peaceful. A getaway.
Tonight, it’s a lifeboat.
I step out first, boots hitting the ground harder than I mean them to. My jaw is tight. My hands won’t stop trembling, so I shove them deep into my pockets before anyone sees.
Behind me, Jesse’s truck rolls to a stop. I hear the twins chattering, half asleep, half excited, blissfully unaware of how close things came tonight.
Good. They don’t need to know.
Wyatt climbs out next, then circles around to help Abilene. She moves carefully now, that stiff, brittle way people get whenthe adrenaline drains away and leaves nothing but exhaustion behind.
The second her boots hit the ground, her knees wobble.
I’m already moving.
“Easy,” I say, stepping in without thinking. My hand closes around her elbow. “Got you.”
She startles, then blinks up at me, eyes red-rimmed from smoke and stress.
She’s clutching that silver bee necklace like it’s the only thing anchoring her here.
“I’m okay,” she says quickly. “Just a little dizzy.”
I look her over, a quick, automatic assessment, the same way I do with a skittish horse after a bad storm.
“You’re done being brave for today,” I say. “Let’s get you inside.”
I don’t give her room to argue. I grab her duffel from the seat and hoist it over my shoulder. My muscles are screaming, but she doesn’t need to see that either.
I tip my chin at Wyatt. “Grab Abilene’s stuff and our bags from the trunk. Jesse, get the twins inside before they conk out on the steps.”
“Yes, boss,” Jesse says, herding his kids toward the porch.
I guide Abilene ahead of me, one hand hovering at the small of her back, close enough to catch her if she stumbles, not quite touching unless she needs it. She walks slowly, head tilted toward the cabin like she’s not entirely convinced it’s real.
“Watch the step,” I murmur as we reach the porch.
She lifts her foot a little higher than she needs to, trusting the warning. That hits me under the ribs.
Inside, the cabin smells of cedar and dust and old coffee grounds. Five bedrooms, a loft, a small living room, and a kitchen that’s seen better days.
I keep it stocked out of habit. Canned food, blankets, and first aid. My dad drilled that into us when we were kids.
You always keep a place ready. Someday, it might save your life.
“Abilene,” I say, shifting her bag on my shoulder, “the guest room, your room, is this way.”
She follows me down the short hall. I flick on the light. Warm, golden glow spills over the space. A simple bed, a dresser, a lamp, a window looking out over dark trees.
