6
SHELBY
The storm breaks on day three, and the silence that follows is so complete it wakes me up.
I lie still in Cory's bed, listening. No wind. No howling. No ice against the windows. Just the soft pop of embers in the woodstove and the deep, steady rhythm of Cory's breathing beside me.
He's on his back with one arm thrown above his head and the other wrapped around me, his hand splayed across my hip even in sleep. Like he's keeping track of me. Like letting go isn't something his body knows how to do, even unconscious.
I watch him in the gray pre-dawn light filtering through the snow-crusted window. The hard lines of his face are softer in sleep. The furrow between his brows that's almost permanent when he's awake has smoothed out. He looks younger. Less guarded. More like the boy from Minnesota who grew up in the cold and loved it before the cold took something from him.
Three days. That's how long we've been trapped in this lodge while the mountain buried itself. Three days of cooking together in the industrial kitchen, arguing about the best way to season elk (he's wrong, it needs more garlic), reading by the fire while the wind screamed, and making love in this narrow bed with an intensity that has ruined me for any other man on the planet.
Three days, and I'm in love with him.
I know it the way I know a good story. Not because someone told me, not because I analyzed the evidence, but because the truth of it is so obvious and so complete that denying it would be dishonest. And I've spent my career building a life around honesty.
Cory Matthews, the grumpiest, most controlled, most infuriatingly careful man I've ever met, has broken something open in me that I spent seventeen years sealing shut. The part that wants to stay.
Not just on this mountain, though the mountain is stunning in a way that makes my photographer's heart ache. Not just in this bed, though this bed with this man has rewritten my understanding of physical intimacy entirely. But here. In whatever life contains this man. In whatever space he'll make room for me.
I want to stay.
The wanting terrifies me less than it did three days ago. And that's the scariest part.
I ease out of bed carefully, pulling on Cory's flannel shirt over my bare skin because it smells like him and because I can. The shirt falls to mid-thigh and the sleeves hang past my fingertips and I roll them up while I pad barefoot to the window.
The world outside is white and blue and breathtaking. Two feet of fresh snow covers everything, transforming Mountain Ready into something out of a dream. The trees are laden, branches bowed under crystal weight. The sky is that impossibleColorado blue that looks photoshopped but isn't. The sun hasn't crested the eastern ridge yet, but the light is coming, pink and gold at the edges, and I press my hand against the cold glass and feel the mountain's quiet like a heartbeat.
My phone is on the nightstand, charging from the lodge's generator. I pick it up and check for signal. Two bars, back from the dead now that the storm's passed.
Seventeen notifications cascade down the screen.
Twelve from the Channel 16 group chat, which has been active despite my inability to respond. Rhea coordinating with Cal about the counter-stalking consult Cory requested. Messages from team members I haven't met offering resources and support. A community of veterans and operators I barely know rallying around a woman they've never met because one of their own said she mattered.
Three from my editor at Altitude, progressively less patient, wanting a status update on the Mountain Ready piece.
One from Rhea directly:
Cal ran prelims on the email addresses you flagged. Pattern analysis in progress. We'll have a full brief ready when you and Cory can get on a call. This guy's sloppy. That's good for us.
And one from the anonymous address. Garrett.
My stomach drops.
You haven't posted in three days. That's not like you. I hope you're okay.
The concern would seem genuine to anyone who didn't know the subtext. That the concern is the threat. That "I hope you're okay" from a man who tracks your every public movement means "I noticed you disappeared and I don't like it."
I close the email. Open my thread with Rhea and type:
New contact from the subject. Sent last night. Forwarding the header data now.
Then I forward the email with full headers the way Rhea taught me during our initial call, the metadata that reveals routing information and sometimes, if the sender is careless, approximate location.
Rhea responds in under a minute, which means she's either been awake since four a.m. or she never went to sleep. Knowing Rhea, both are plausible.
Got it. Adding to the file. Cal will have the full picture by noon your time. How are you holding up?
