I watched his face like I hadn’t been allowed to all day, really watched it. The new lines around his mouth that came from laughing and worrying. The calm behind his eyes that wasn’t there a year ago. The way he didn’t crowd me with apologies when what I needed was space to admit I still wanted this.
“I’m scared,” I said finally. “Not because of you. Because of me. I know how easy it is for me to run. I know how safe Seattle feels because it’s loud enough to drown out second thoughts. And I know how quiet your cabin can be when there’s no one blaming traffic for why they didn’t show up.”
“I’m scared too,” he said. “Because you’re the first person I’ve wanted without wanting to be something else first. Because this town is my spine and I don’t know how to be a man you can love if I pull it out. And because I can’t prove the future to you. I can only stand where I said I’d stand when the weather gets ugly.” He tipped his head toward the gym. “Like this. Tonight.”
“Tonight,” I echoed, because the word had weight now. “I want to try.”
His breath left him on a shaky exhale. He stepped closer but stopped within easy reach of retreat, like a man who’d taught his body respect without losing the impulse to reach.
“Okay,” he said. “Then we try.”
It wasn’t a speech. It didn’t need to be. The heater ticked. The fluorescent hummed. Somewhere in the gym, Riley muttered something in her sleep about marshmallows and municipal codes. The storm threw another shoulder into the building and failed to move it.
He held out his hand—simple, palm up, a steady offer. I stared at it, at the nicks and the ink and the strength that had lifted more than its fair share tonight, and placed my hand in his.
Warm. Familiar. New.
“Together?” I said, because my humor is a defense I’m not ready to surrender completely.
“Conspirators,” he said. “Co-defendants. People who refuse to let a blizzard call the shots.”
I squeezed once, hard enough to be felt. “Okay.”
We stood like that for a minute, not needing to fill the space. The supply room felt less like a closet and more like a pause button we’d earned. I found myself smiling—small, secret,ridiculous—because I could see it again: coffee in the morning at the bar’s back door while the river steamed, late-night calls from my tiny Seattle balcony when a siren dragged by and I wanted to hear quiet, weekends where our toothbrushes shook hands and didn’t scare either of us. Not a blueprint. A sketch I wanted to keep drawing.
“Come on,” he said when the silence settled good. “Let’s go be useful.”
We went back into the gym. The lantern light felt softer.
Callum had his arm draped over Lydia’s waist and her arm had slid off her eyes.
Drew peeled off to adjust the heater near the cots where the older folks were camped. I ducked to retrieve a hat that had rolled under a chair and returned it to a kid who had fallen asleep midcrayon.
We bumped shoulders twice more, and each time it felt less like an accident and more like a nudge from something bigger than the storm. At one point, I looked up to find him watching me, and this time, I didn’t look away. He didn’t either. We didn’t need to smile. The look itself felt like a promise we weren’t ready to say out loud where it could break.
Sometime past midnight, the generator hiccupped and then settled, like it had decided to forgive us for asking so much. The wind sang lower. A handful of people snored. Someone’s dog sighed.
I couldn’t believe I was stuck in Reckless River during a blizzard with the man who’d had more complications than I knew what to do with, and I was even worse.
But maybe stuck wasn’t the right word. Maybe I was simplyhere.And maybe being here with him wasn’t a trap or a test, buta choice I could keep making until it felt less like courage and more like breathing.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Drew
Morning hit bright and sharp, all diamond light and too much purity for a town full of caffeine addicts. Snow buried everything—railings, signs, the gazebo bow that had given up on dignity two storms ago. The trees along Main looked like sugar sculptures from a bakery that didn’t know when to stop. I hadn’t seen Reckless River this snow-drunk in years.
The community center yawned itself awake—stretching, groaning, the collective sound of a hundred people rediscovering their spines. Cots creaked. Boots thudded. Someone’s dog sneezed, wagged like it had summoned the sun, and earned a round of applause.
Then the generator gave its morning cough and sputtered into a low, heroic hum.
“Morning, blizzard survivors!” Riley marched down the center aisle with two coffee pots held aloft like Olympic torches. “Choose your fighter: medium roast, or the one strong enough to make your regrets feel like distant memories.”
Applause again. This town clapped for caffeine like it was a religion.
I stretched out of a half-sleep that had involved one chair, three folded quilts, and a vendetta against my lower back. A few joints protested, but the promise of breakfast fixed most things.
Callum had turned one corner of the gym into a makeshift diner—two griddles, a borrowed hot plate, and enough mixing bowls to stage a pancake uprising. We’d scraped together the ingredients from across town: mix from the pantry, eggs from neighbors, milk rationed like gold, and a suspicious stash of bacon that appeared from Lydia’s bag like a state secret.
