We're leaving the wolves, the box canyon, and the world where survival is a multiple-choice question with only one right answer.
We're heading back to plumbing. To Wi-Fi. To consequences.
Nash slows the snowmobile as we crest the final ridge above the lodge. He kills the engine, letting the silence settle over us one last time.
"There it is," he says, and I feel it more than hear it, his chest against my ear.
I sit up and look down. Crystal Creek Lodge sits nestled along the frozen creek, a sprawl of warm timber and glowing windows. Smoke curls lazily from the massive stone chimney. It looks like a postcard. It looks safe.
It might as well be a different planet.
"It looks small," I whisper.
"It's not small," Nash says. "You just got bigger."
He turns slightly in the saddle to look at me. His face is wind-burned, his stubble is now a proper beard, and his eyes are tired. But when he looks at me, the warmth is unmistakable.
"Ready for re-entry?" he asks.
"No," I admit. "But I really need a shower."
He chuckles, restarting the engine. "Fair enough. Let's go home."
We descend the final slope, the machine growling as we hit the groomed trail leading to the main compound. As we pull up to the lodge—the same front yard where Reid set me down in my city boots what feels like a lifetime ago—the front door of the lodge bursts open.
Finn Hollister steps out, followed closely by Mags.
Finn looks exactly the same—rugged, handsome, and wearing that perpetual look of a man about to collect on a bet. Mags looks radiant, wrapped in a thick wool cardigan, holding a mug of tea.
Nash cuts the engine. The silence that follows is immediately broken by Finn's booming voice.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in," he calls out, walking down the steps. "We were starting to place bets. I had 'eaten by bears' at three-to-one odds."
"Bears are hibernating, genius," Nash says, climbing off the machine. He moves stiffly, favoring his right knee, the one he banged on the scree slope.
I slide off the back seat. My legs feel like jelly. The ground feels suspiciously solid after hours of vibration.
Finn stops a few feet away, looking from Nash to me. His grin fades slightly, replaced by a look of genuine assessment.
"You guys look …" He pauses, searching for the word.
"Alive?" Nash suggests.
"Rough," Finn corrects. "You look rough. Like you went twelve rounds with a moose."
Mags steps around him, her eyes locking onto mine. She doesn't comment on my matted hair, or the soot stains on my jacket, or the scrape on my cheek from the climb. She grins, wide and unsubtle.
"Welcome back, Aris," she says. "There's fresh coffee in the kitchen, and I made cinnamon rolls."
"I love you," I say instantly. "I don't even know you that well, but I love you."
Mags laughs and pulls me into a hug. She smells like vanilla and expensive shampoo. It's a stark contrast to the scent of pine resin and fear I've been living with.
"Come on," she says, steering me toward the house. "Let the boys deal with the gear. You need heat."
I glance back at Nash. He's unstrapping the gear, talking low to Finn. He catches my eye and gives a small nod.Go.
Mags leads me up the stairs to the mudroom entrance. "Go on in, I'll pour the coffee," she says, disappearing into the kitchen.
