Chapter 8
EIGHT
GAGE
I’m halfway through mucking out the fox enclosure when I realize I haven’t gotten a damn thing done in the last twenty minutes.
Not really.
The shovel is in my hands. The work is familiar. But my brain? It’s gone. Off somewhere it shouldn’t be. Somewhere with a long-haired, freckle-faced woman curled up on my couch like she’s always belonged there.
Like she hasn’t just shown up in my life a few days ago and flipped it upside down without trying.
I lean on the handle and let out a breath. The air bites, sharp and cold—Jesse’s kind of morning, what he’d call “boots and beanie” weather. I call it leave-me-the-hell-alone-and-let-me-work weather.
But not even the cold can snap me out of it.
Not when I can still hear her voice in my head.
You’re not hiding. You’re healing.
Those words have been living in my chest since she said them. Soft and quiet, but damn if they haven’t taken root somewhere deep.
Which is probably why I nearly jump out of my skin when a loud hoot echoes from the back of the property.
“Shit,” I mutter, dropping the shovel and heading for the trees.
I find the source fast—an adolescent barred owl, tangled in a rusted wire fence. The poor thing’s flapping hard, one leg caught in a twist of metal.
“Easy,” I murmur, crouching low. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
The owl snaps its beak, feathers flying as I work the wire loose. It’s not bad—just enough to hold him in place. No blood, thank God.
I’m just reaching for the last twist of wire when I hear a voice behind me.
“Oh my God, is that an owl?”
I don’t need to look to know who it is.
“Tessa,” I say, keeping my focus on the owl. “Careful. Don’t spook him.”
But she’s already at my side, crouching beside me like she’s done it a hundred times. She’s wearing an old sweatshirt, a knit hat pulled low, cheeks flushed from the cold. Her boots are covered in mud. And still—somehow—she looks fucking gorgeous.
“What happened?” she asks.
“The fence gave out. He got stuck.”
“You need help?”
I open my mouth to say no. I always say no.
But she’s already reaching out, voice low, calming. Soft words I don’t catch but the owl seems to understand. He settles, just enough for us to work together and free him.
“Hold his wing,” I say, and she does. Gentle. Confident. Like this isn’t her first time easing pain.
We get him loose, and I cradle him in my arms, checking for deeper injuries.
“He’s lucky,” I say. “He maybe has a sprain. Nothing broken. Mostly scared.”
She grins at him. “He’s beautiful.”
I could say the same thing about her.
I don’t bother trying to stop the way something tightens in my chest. The way it always does around her.
“You want to name him?” I ask.
Her eyes grow wide. “For real?”
I shrug. “You helped, you get to name him. That’s the rule.”
She squints at the owl. “He looks like a judgmental professor.”
“That’s not a name.”
“Archie.”
I stare at her. “Archie?”
“He’s an Archie. Short for Professor Archibald, of course.”
The owl blinks. I think he agrees.
“Alright,” I say, grinning. “Archie it is.”
We carry him back to the rehab shed together. She asks questions the whole way—what I feed him, how long he’ll stay, how often this happens. She wants to know everything. Not out of politeness. Out of curiosity. Investment.
“You ever get attached?” she asks.
I hesitate. “I’m not supposed to.”
“But?”
“Doesn’t always work that way.”
She nods, quiet. “I get that.”
And I think she does. More than I want her or anyone else to understand me.
She adjusts Archie’s perch once we get him settled. The owl ruffles, then stills, content in a way I’ve only seen with animals who feel safe.
“I think he likes you,” I say.
She throws my earlier words back at me. “That makes two of you.”
My breath catches.
I don’t move.
Neither does she.
It would be so easy to kiss her again right now.
To reach out and tug her closer. To give in to the way she looks at me, like she already knows how this ends and isn’t afraid of it.
But I don’t.
Because I’m starting to want things. And wanting things leads to risk.
We’re walking back to the cabin when her phone buzzes. She pulls it from her jacket pocket, brows lifting.
“Harper,” she says. “My best friend.”
I nod, giving her space, but my gut’s already tight.
She answers, voice bright. “Hey! Yes, I’m alive! I miss your face, too. No, I’m still in Colorado... No, it’s not like that…”
She drifts toward the edge of the porch, her voice lowering.
A pause.
Then: “Wait, what? Really? They actually reached out?”
Another pause.
Then laughter—surprised, delighted. Hopeful.
And just like that, I feel it.
The shift.
I can’t hear all of it. Just bits and pieces.
“…the studio wants to see more… no, it’s not official, but it’s something …”
“…maybe New York, but the LA branch is looking…”
It hits me like a cold wind to the chest.
She’s not from here.
She’s not staying.
She’s not mine.
Not really.
Tessa ends the call and turns back toward me, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. “Sorry,” she says. “That was my friend. She might’ve gotten me a lead with a design agency—a real one. They want to see some of my samples.”
I try to smile. “That’s… great.”
She tilts her head. “You think?”
“I do,” I say. “It’s a big deal.”
“It’s just a lead,” she says quickly. “Not a job. Not yet.”
But it’s more than that.
It’s a reminder.
This is a pause for her. A breath between chapters.
And me? I’m not even on the same page.
“You should go after it,” I say, voice lower than I mean it to be.
She frowns. “I haven’t said yes.”
“You should still go.”
Because we’ve both known this all along. She isn’t here to stay. This is just a stop in the road to wherever she’s going.