Jace’s mug pauses halfway to his lips. His eyes cut to me. The sharpest side-eye he gives me.
Five seconds. Ten. The urge to apologize, to dismiss my impertinence, presses behind my lips.
“Not anymore.” He sounds surprised. “Aches in the cold. Nerve damage makes that side of my face numb when the temperature drops.”
I nod, holding back words or pity. Then… “Can I see it?”
His whole body goes rigid. The mug comes down to his knee. His other hand grips the chair arm. Muscles in his forearm ripple under the rolled sleeve of his flannel.
I wait.
He turns toward me.
A slow rotation. The scarred side catches the gray light. The raised line runs from his temple, across his cheekbone, down along his square jaw. Puckered in places, smooth in others. Darker skin. Altered.
His mouth tightens as if bracing for the well-meaning reassurance he probably hears too often. My gaze bypasses the scar and lands on him.
His eyes, almost black in this light, are ringed with lashes. His mouth, full lower lip, the upper one thinner, slightly chapped.
The scar makes his facial geography specific. “You’ve got a really good face, you know that?”
His eyes go wide, baring a raw openness. I hold his gaze.
Jace stares at me as if I reflect a truth he hasn’t yet seen. The words are a promise, settling deep within me. I will say it again tomorrow. A hundred times, if he lets me.
He swallows before looking away. His hand on the chair arm shakes, fingers trembling before he flattens them on the wood. Neither of us speaks.
Spool snores. The clouds shift. A slice of late sunshine breaks through and lands on the porch boards between our chairs.
He talks to me at dusk. His words came out in pieces, one at a time, each word weighted.
“My grandfather built this cabin.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the peaks. “Nineteen sixty-two. Hauled the timber himself from the claims up the mountain. Took him three summers.”
I pull my knees up and listen, so I can remember every detail.
“My dad grew up here. I grew up here, mostly. Summers and school breaks. After my dad died, I moved in full-time.”
I hold my questions, letting him speak.
“Spool showed up two winters ago. Middle of January. Minus ten outside.” As Jace glances at the dog, his expression softens. “Half-starved. Missing one ear. I put food on the porch and went inside. The next morning, he was still there. Put food out again. Third day, he was on the porch. Fifth, he was inside.”
“Did you name him right away?”
“No. Called him Dog for two months.” The corner of Jace’s mouth twitches. “Spool was what he did with the rope I left on the porch. Pulled the whole coil apart and wrapped himself in it. Took me an hour to untangle him.”
I smile. He looks away.
He tells me about the cable accident with the flat tone one uses for mundane facts. Steel choker. Whipped across his face. He hasn’t been to the Timberline Tavern in four years. He used to go every Friday.
“There’s a guy up the ridge,” he says. “Ghost. Former Marine. He’s…” Jace pauses. “Similar.”
“You’re friends?”
“We don’t talk.” He pauses. “Ghost drops off things sometimes. I leave extra supplies at his gate. We nod at the gas station.”
“That sounds like a friendship to me.”
He looks at me straight on, then his gaze returns to the peaks.
