For ten years, this house has been where I came to be alone. Where I hid from the world when guiding wasn't enough of a distraction. The Hollister brothers each built our walls in different places, and this one is mine. Before the field, it held her for exactly one night, a cot in the loft, walls up on both sides. Until today I never asked it to hold her like this.
But watching Aris walk into my kitchen, kick off her boots, hang her coat on the peg where mine already hangs—the walls are down.
It's not a hideout anymore. It's a home.
My mother went first, last winter, after a long fight she never quit. Then my dad walked away from the whole island to try to walk it off, and when he came back, months later, he was still walking. Just slower. That was the pattern. You loved somebody. They went. Nobody comes back.
Aris flew to Fairbanks this morning. She flew back this afternoon.
Nobody comes back. That has been the rule my whole life. She just broke it.
The man who stood on that porch last February, in a month that wouldn't end, waiting for his dad to come back to himself—he's been waiting ever since.
I feel him let go.
And as I watch her laugh at the stove, opening the door and adding a log with the ease of a woman who fed our night fires in the field for two weeks straight, I know one thing for sure.
The sun can clock off at four and not show up again till nine. The snow can pile up to the roof. Let the deans of the world send all the emails they want.
We're ready for them.
Chapter Twenty-Three
ARIS
Comfort,I am discovering, is a sedative.
When you're cold, hungry, and being hunted, your senses are razor-sharp. You hear every twig snap, smell every shift in the wind. You exist in a state of vibrating alertness where survival is the only metric that matters.
But when you're warm, fed, and tangled up in flannel sheets with the man you love, the world narrows down to the size of this bed. You forget that there is anything outside the window except scenery. You forget that nature isn't just a backdrop for romance. It's a living, breathing entity that doesn't care about your happy ending.
I wake up slowly, stretching into the warmth of Nash's body. The sun is barely over the tree line, but it's found the gap in the blinds—the low, hard winter light that comes in sideways and paints stripes across the duvet.
"We slept in," I murmur, burying my face in the crook of his shoulder. He smells like sleep and soap and him.
"Mmm," Nash grunts, his arm tightening around my waist, pulling me back against him. "Define 'slept.' I think we passed out around four in the morning."
The memory of last night is still warm on my skin. There was plenty of sex, but mostly it was about reclaiming the time we lost—talking until our voices were hoarse, planning the summer, arguing about whether or not we needed a new generator (Nash says yes; I say no, mostly because I like winning), and simply existing in the same space without a countdown clock hanging over our heads.
"I want bacon," I say, sniffing the air hopefully. "Why doesn't this house smell like bacon yet?"
"Because the cook is still in bed," Nash says. He kisses the top of my head. "He runs on batteries. And spite."
He rolls over, checking the clock on the nightstand. "10:30. Finn will hear about this and be insufferable for a week. Stamina jokes. Compensating for lost time. Kingfisher jokes about mail runs. Bring the earplugs."
"Let him," I say, tracing the line of his bicep. "I can handle a little heckling from a lodge owner."
Nash sits up, the quilt falling to his waist. He stretches, the muscles in his back flexing, scars and strength I now know by heart. I take a second to appreciate the view. This is my life now: this man, this house, this wild, messy, beautiful chaos.
"Coffee," he decides, standing up and pulling on his jeans. "And then I want to check the smokehouse before it gets any later. That's my winter meat hanging in there, and I haven't laid eyes on it since before we rode out."
"The smokehouse," I repeat, sitting up too. "Educate me."
"Little cedar shed out back," Nash says, pulling a wool shirt over his head. "Where the year's venison is curing. Padlocked, mesh door, cedar smoke on a timer. It's supposed to be foolproof, but foolproof is a challenge, not a promise."
"Sounds like something I need to see."
"You need to eat first. You're going to lose interest halfway through the tour if I don't feed you."
