Chapter Seven
MATT
The events of the past days rush back as I wake, taking in the makeshift bed by the fireplace and Eliza's sleeping form beside me. Careful not to wake her, I free myself from the blankets. The cold air hits me, and I pull on my boots. The cabin is freezing.
The fire has died down to embers, casting a faint, warm glow across the room. I add a log, stoking it back to life. With the fire rekindled, I head to the kitchen, my boots creaking on the wooden floor.
Outside, the world is a blanket of white, transformed by the avalanche. The landscape is unrecognizable now, smooth where it was once rugged, with mounds of snow where buildings once stood. It's beautiful in a stark, dangerous way—a reminder of how everything can change.
As I reach for the coffee grounds, a glint of sunlight reflecting off the snow catches my eye. Suddenly, I'm not in the cabin anymore. I'm back on the rig, the explosion ripping through the air. The heat, the noise, the screams of my crew—it all comes flooding back with vivid intensity.
The coffee pot slips from my grip, shattering on the floor. My heart is pounding, sweat beading on my forehead despite the cold. I grip the counter, my knuckles white, trying to anchor myself to reality. But the memories are too strong, pulling me back to that terrible day.
“Matt?” Eliza's voice sounds far away, muffled by the roaring in my ears.
I blink, trying to focus on her, but all I can see are the flames, the twisted metal, the bodies of my friends. The smell of smoke and burning oil fills my nostrils, making me gag.
“Matt! What's wrong?”
Eliza's voice cuts through the haze, and I force myself to focus. She's kneeling out of arm's reach, careful to avoid the broken glass surrounding us. Her blue eyes are wide, and her hand is reaching for me.
“Don't—don't touch me,” I gasp, holding up a trembling hand. “I can't—I can't.” The words come out choked, almost inaudible.
“Okay, I won't touch you,” she says, her voice trembling as she pulls her hand back. “Breathe ... just breathe, Matt. You're safe. You're in the cabin, remember? We're okay. The avalanche is over. We're safe.”
I close my eyes, focusing on her body on the cold floor beneath me.
Slowly, painfully, the present reasserts itself.
The smell of smoke fades, replaced by the scent of pine and wood smoke from the fire.
The roaring in my ears subsides, and I notice the crackling flames, the wind outside, and Eliza's soft breathing.
When I open my eyes again, the kitchen has stopped spinning. Eliza is still there, watching me. Shame washes over me. This is what I feared most—losing control, letting someone see how broken I am.
“I'm sorry,” I say, unable to meet her eyes. “I'm so sorry you had to witness that.”
“Don't apologize,” she whispers. “Are you okay? Can I get you anything?”
I shake my head, then hesitate. If anyone deserves an explanation, it's her. But admitting this weakness, risking seeing pity in her eyes, makes my stomach churn. Still, I owe her the truth.
“It's ... it's the accident. On the rig,” I say, the words feeling like glass in my throat. “Sometimes I ... I see it again. Feel it. Smell it.”
“PTSD,” she says, not a question but a statement.
I don't trust myself to speak, bracing for the pity or discomfort I'm sure will follow.
We navigate around the broken glass, and when we reach the couch, we sit close—closer than we have before. The heat from the fire wraps around us, but it's the closeness between us that I feel the most. Her shoulder brushes against mine, a subtle but deliberate touch that calms me.
“You can tell me. I'm a good listener.”
As I sit there, I tell Eliza everything.
“We were doing a routine drill,” I say, my eyes fixed on the fire.
“Everything was normal, until it wasn't. There was a pressure buildup in one line. We tried to control it, but ...” I trail off, swallowing hard.
“The explosion took out half the rig. I was thrown clear, but others . .. they weren't so lucky.”
Eliza listens, her gaze steady as I open up about the nightmares, the flashbacks, and the constant edge of fear. When she reaches out and takes my hand, something shifts in me.
A knot tightens in my stomach, and my first instinct is to pull away, to protect myself from unraveling.
But I don't. I wrap my fingers around hers.
The simple act of holding on gives me something solid.
My pulse quickens, and I inhale, trying to keep my voice steady, to stay in control.
It's hard—harder than I expected, especially with the way she's looking at me, offering quiet strength without a single word. Her hand is a lifeline, stopping me from drowning in everything I’ve kept bottled up.
Her touch doesn't only steady me—it anchors me in a way I didn't know I needed.
“I keep seeing their faces,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “The men who didn't make it. I was their supervisor. I was supposed to keep them safe.”
“It wasn't your fault, Matt,” Eliza says. “You couldn't have known what would happen.”
I shake my head, unable to accept her absolution. “I should have. That's my job—was my job—to anticipate problems, to keep everyone safe. And I failed.”
When I fall silent, emotionally drained but somehow lighter, Eliza speaks. “Thank you for trusting me with this,” she says. “I can't imagine how hard that must have been for you to carry alone.”
I look up at her and am struck by the compassion and fierce understanding in her gaze. There's no pity, no judgment—only acceptance. For the first time in months, a glimmer of something that might be hope stirs within me.
A distant sound breaks through the quiet morning—the distinctive rumble of approaching snowmobiles.
Eliza's head snaps up, her eyes wide. “That must be my brothers,” she says, relief and apprehension in her voice.
A knot tightens in my stomach as the sound of snowmobiles grows louder. After the intensity of our conversation, facing strangers—even Eliza's family—feels overwhelming. I’m aware of my appearance—disheveled, emotionally raw.
I've met Kane and Rhys briefly, and Eliza's mentioned her other brothers, but I don't know what to expect.
There's relief and anxiety churning inside me.
On one hand, their arrival means help, a connection to the outside world we've been cut off from.
On the other, it means the end of this strange, intense bubble Eliza and I have been in.
“We should make ourselves a bit more presentable,” I say.
We scramble to our feet, straightening our clothes and trying to look less like we've been through an avalanche—both literally and emotionally.
I head to the bathroom, turning on the faucet and splashing cold water on my face, hoping to erase the evidence of my breakdown.
The coolness jolts me, helping me pull myself together.
Eliza lingers at the doorway, watching me for a moment before resting her hand on the knob. She turns to me, her eyes searching mine. “Are you ready?”