I shake my head, feeling a surge of determination. “This isn't about proving anything. It's about taking responsibility. I'm not a child anymore, and I'm not running away because things got tough.”
A moment of tense silence falls over the room. I feel Matt's support beside me as I stand my ground, meeting each of my brothers' gazes.
Rhys's expression shifts into one of surprise. “Well, would you look at that. Our little sister is all grown up and taking charge.”
Kane sighs. I can see the conflict in his expression—worry warring with a grudging respect. “Alright,” he says. “If you're sure about this. But we're not leaving you up here to handle it alone. We'll help with the repairs.”
Relief washes over me, though I try not to let it show. “Thank you,” I say. “That means a lot.”
As the day progresses, we move through the lodge and cabins, assessing the damage and making plans for repairs. By evening, we've made some progress—clearing debris, shoringup weak spots—but the enormity of the task ahead looms over us. Throughout it all, Matt seems to pull back, letting my brothers take the lead. It’s a stark contrast to the way we worked together before they arrived, and I can’t help but miss our easy partnership.
We crowd around the small table in Matt's cabin for a simple dinner, eating in the warm glow of the fire. Partway through the meal, Reid leans toward me. “Hey,” he says, keeping his voice low, “I've cleared out one of the undamaged cabins next door. Why don't I help you settle in over there? It’ll be more comfortable than bunking with Matt.”
I hesitate, glancing over at Matt. “What about Matt?”
Matt looks up, catching the tail end of the conversation. He shrugs. “I'm fine here. I've got everything I need.”
Part of me wants to argue, to insist I'm fine where I am too, but the last thing I need is my brothers getting the wrong idea about Matt and me. I can already see the concern in Reid's eyes, like he's trying to protect me. “Oh, um, sure,” I reply. “Thanks.”
Later that night, I toss and turn in my new bed, sleep eluding me. The cabin feels too quiet, too empty. After everything that's happened, being alone is unsettling. I miss Matt's closeness, the comfort of knowing he was in the room.
I pace the cabin, debating with myself. Should I go to Matt's? What would he think? And what would my brothers say if they knew? But they've already gone home—Kane to take care of Hailey, the others back to their own lives. The idea of spending the night alone, with memories of the avalanche replaying in my mind, makes my decision for me.
Without a second thought, I'm on my feet, slipping on my boots and jacket. The short walk to Matt's cabin feels longer in the dark. I stop at his door, my hand hovering, ready to knock. What if he turns me away? What if he thinks I'm being clingy or weak?
But then I remember the way he looked at me earlier, the pride in his eyes as I stood up to my brothers. Composing myself, I rap lightly on the wood.
There's a moment of silence, then the sound of footsteps. The door opens, and Matt stands there, looking surprised.
“Eliza? Is everything okay?”
Feeling shy, I muster the courage. “I ... I didn't want to stay alone,” I say. “Can I come in?”
Matt's expression softens, and he steps back, opening the door wider. “Of course,” he says. “Come on in.”
As I slip past him, our arms brush, and I feel that telltale spark of electricity. The cabin is warm, the fire still burning low in the grate. It feels more like home than the empty cabin I left.
“I'm sorry,” I say, hugging myself. “I ... after everything that's happened, being alone felt...”
“Hey,” Matt interrupts, “you don't have to explain. I get it.”
And I can see in his eyes that he does. The avalanche, the destruction, the constant stress—it's a lot to bear alone.
“Do you want some tea?” Matt offers, already moving toward the kitchen. “I think I saw some chamomile earlier.”
I'm grateful for the normalcy of the gesture. As Matt busies himself with the kettle, I settle on the couch, tucking my feet under me. The comforting scents of the cabin—pine, wood smoke, and something uniquely Matt—help ease some of the tension from my shoulders.
“So,” Matt says, handing me a steaming mug, “want to talk about it?”
I wrap my hands around the mug, the comfort seeping into my bones, soothing in its simplicity. “I don't know. Every time I close my eyes, the avalanche is coming toward us. I hear the roar, feel the panic...” I trail off, my gaze distant.
I hesitate, wondering if I should even tell him this. I've seen how his own trauma grips him, how the memories pull himunder, and the last thing I want is to burden him with my fears. But I can't keep it bottled up, and somehow, it feels safer saying it aloud to him.
Matt sits beside me, close enough to offer comfort but careful not to crowd me. “I know the feeling,” he says. “After the rig accident, I couldn't sleep for weeks without reliving it.”
I look up at him, our eyes meeting. There's an understanding there, a shared experience of trauma that forges a bond stronger than words can express. “How did you cope?”
Matt lets out a soft chuckle. “Not very well, at first. But eventually, I figured it out. I'm still figuring it out.”
