Chapter 7
Madison
The tomato soup simmers on Jake's fancy stove, filling the kitchen with the smell of roasted tomatoes, basil, and a hint of cream.
I've been at this for two hours now. Partly because good soup takes time, partly because I needed something to do with my hands while my brain processes everything that's happened.
I give the soup another stir and check on the rolls rising under a clean dish towel. They're almost ready for the oven: soft, pillowy rounds that will be perfect for dunking. Comfort food. The kind of meal you make when everything feels uncertain and you need something warm to hold onto.
Jake left right after our awkward conversation on the couch. Said he needed to check on the road conditions too, see how much progress the plows had made. We both knew he was giving us space. Giving me space.
I should be planning my exit. The storm has finally broken, pale sunlight streaming through the windows for the first time in days. The roads will be passable soon. I have a schedule, a route, a rodeo in Heart River that I've been counting on attending for months.
Instead, I'm making soup.
The buns go into the oven, and I start arranging everything on the counter. Bowls. Spoons. The butter dish I found in his fridge. I'm reaching across the counter for the salt when I hear the front door open and close.
Heavy footsteps. The sound of boots being kicked off.
"Something smells amazing in here."
I turn. Jake is standing in the kitchen doorway, snow melting in his dark hair, his cheeks flushed from the cold. He looks exhausted. Shoulders tight, shadows under his eyes, but he's looking at me like I'm the first good thing he's seen all day.
"Tomato soup," I say. "And fresh rolls. They need another few minutes."
"You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to."
He nods slowly, shrugging off his jacket. I turn back to the counter, suddenly very aware of how domestic this is. Me in his kitchen. Cooking for him. Like we're something we're not.
We eat lunch standing at the counter, dipping warm bread into tomato soup. Like what just happened doesn’t change everything.
After we eat, Jake announces that the driveway won't shovel itself. I grab a spare pair of gloves and follow him outside.
We spend the rest of the afternoon clearing snow.
It's brutal, backbreaking work: three feet of heavy, wet powder that seems to multiply every time I turn around.
But there's something satisfying about it too.
The burn in my muscles. The crisp mountain air.
The way Jake and I fall into an easy rhythm, working side by side without needing to fill the silence with words.
By the time we finish, the sun is setting behind the peaks and I can barely lift my arms. We're both soaked with sweat despite the cold, breathing hard, grinning at each other across the cleared driveway like we've accomplished something monumental.
Back inside, we eat leftover soup and the rest of the rolls—cold now, but still good. I'm too exhausted to taste much of anything. My whole body aches in that pleasant, used-up way that comes from honest physical labor.
I shower first, standing under the hot water until my muscles unknot and my skin turns pink. When I finally emerge, wrapped in one of Jake's oversized towels, he's waiting outside the bathroom door.
"Bed's all yours," he says. "I'll be in after I clean up."
I don't let myself think too hard about what that means. I just nod, find my sleep clothes, and crawl under the covers.
The sheets smell like him. Pine and coffee and something warm underneath.
I'm half-asleep when I feel the mattress dip.
Jake climbs into bed carefully, trying not to wake me. I keep my breathing steady, my eyes closed, not quite ready to acknowledge that we're doing this again. Sharing a bed. Like it's normal. Like it doesn't mean anything.
He's close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Close enough that I could roll over and press myself against him if I wanted.
I want.
God, I want.
But I'm leaving tomorrow, and he's not the kind of man who asks women to stay. I've known that from the beginning. It's written in every guarded look, every careful distance he maintains even when we're tangled together.
Except these past few days, he keeps doing things that don't fit that picture. Saying things that catch me off guard. Looking at me like I'm something more than a temporary distraction.
It's confusing as hell.
I can tell he’s awake. Can tell he’s going over something in his mind too.
"You're thinking too loud," I mumble before I can stop myself.
He goes still. "Sorry."
"What are you thinking about?"
"Nothing."
"Liar."
I can almost feel him smile. "Go to sleep, Madison."
"You first."
"That's not how it works."
"How does it work?"
"I don't know. I've never done this before."
"Done what? Slept next to someone for three nights straight?"
"Wanted someone to stay."
The words hang in the darkness between us. I go completely still, afraid that if I move, if I breathe too loud, he'll take them back.
"Forget I said that," he mutters.
"No."
"Madison—"
"You want me to stay?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
Silence. I can feel him staring at the ceiling, feel the tension radiating off him in waves.
"I don't know what this is," he says finally. "You and me. I don't have a name for it."
"Does it need a name?"
"Usually, yeah. Usually by now I know exactly what something is. Fun. Temporary. A way to pass time." He turns his head, and even in the dim light I can see his eyes searching my face. "This doesn't feel like any of those things."
"What does it feel like?"
He's quiet for a long moment.
"I don't know," he says. "That's the problem."
My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it. This is the most honest he's been with me. Maybe the most honest he's been with anyone in years. I want to reach for him. Want to close the distance between us and show him that whatever this is, he's not alone in feeling it.
Instead, I shift closer. Just enough that my shoulder brushes his.
"I don't know either," I whisper. "But I'm not sorry I ended up here."
"No?"
"No."
We lie there in silence. His breathing eventually evens out, slowing into the rhythm of sleep. I stay awake longer, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, trying to make sense of the ache in my chest.
Tomorrow I leave. Tomorrow everything goes back to normal.
I close my eyes and try to convince myself that's what I want. The lights flicker back on sometime after midnight, but neither of us moves. The sudden hum of electricity feels almost intrusive.