Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
SNOWBOUND
AVA
The cabin was silent except for the wind.
I'd unpacked my duffel, made coffee I didn't drink, and checked my phone approximately two hundred times. No signal. The storm had swallowed everything, roads, sky, the mountains themselves. Through the window, the world was nothing but white.
I should've felt trapped.
Instead, I felt safe for the first time in months.
The wood stove crackled, steady and warm. The cabin smelled like pine and old smoke, comforting in its simplicity. No one knew where I was. No one could call asking if I was okay, if I'd thought about coming back, if I'd considered therapy again.
No one except Griffin Hayes, whose final words kept replaying in my head.
On whether you can work with someone who's going to want you every single day and never do a damn thing about it.
I pressed my palms against the kitchen counter, breathing through the rush of heat that came with the memory. He'd said it like a warning. Like a confession. Like something that cost him to admit.
And I'd told the truth right back.
We'll both have a problem.
Because I'd felt it too. That pull. That awareness. The way my body had responded to his proximity in the truck, to the rough edge in his voice, to the controlled fury he'd aimed at Vivian but never at me.
Griffin Hayes was dangerous. Nothing like the one she’d gotten to know online.
He looked at me like he saw everything I was trying to hide, and still wanted me anyway.
I couldn't afford that. Couldn't afford wanting someone when I was barely holding myself together.
The lights flickered.
I grabbed the flashlight Griffin had left on the counter, checking the beam. Strong. Good. I scanned the cabin, wood stove still burning, plenty of split logs stacked beside it, water running from the tap. Everything was fine.
The lights went out.
The cabin vanished. The cliff became clear.
Darkness slammed into me like a physical force.
No. Not now. Not here.
But my body didn't care about logic. My breath came short and sharp, my vision narrowing to the thin beam of the flashlight. I could feel the harness cutting into my thighs, could hear the teenager's scream cut off mid-sound, could see the rope swinging empty in the dark,
Stop. You're fine. You're in a cabin. You're safe.
The wind howled, rattling the windows.
I made myself move to the wood stove, focusing on the orange glow through the grate. Light. Heat. Real things. Present things. Not the past. Not the fall. Not the way his body had tumbled into shadow while I hung there, helpless and screaming.
My hands were shaking.
A knock at the door nearly stopped my heart.
"Ava? It's Griffin."
I crossed to the door and opened it. He stood on the porch, snow coating his shoulders, a heavy pack in one hand and a lantern in the other.
His jaw flexed hard enough that I saw it even through the storm.
His eyes went straight to my face, and I saw the exact moment he registered something was wrong.
"Power's out across the ridge," he said, stepping inside without waiting for permission. He set the lantern on the table, then the pack. "Brought backup supplies. Generator fuel, extra batteries, medical kit..."
"I'm fine." My voice came out steadier than I felt.
He looked at me for a long beat. "You're not."
"The lights went out. I'm just, adjusting."
"Ava." He moved closer, and the firelight carved shadows across his face. "You're shaking."
I was. Damn it.
"It's nothing. Just, old wiring startled me."
"You're a terrible liar." He reached out slowly, like I was something wild that might bolt, and brushed snow from my shoulder. His hand was warm even through my sweater. "What happened?"
I should've deflected. Should've made a joke or changed the subject. But something about the quiet way he asked, the complete lack of judgment in his voice, broke through my defenses.
"I don't like the dark," I said. “Not after the last rescue.”
Understanding flickered in his eyes. He didn't push. Just nodded and moved to the pack, pulling out two more battery lanterns. He placed them around the cabin, creating pools of steady light.
Better. Breathable.
"Thank you," I managed.
"Don't." He shrugged out of his snow-covered jacket, hanging it by the door. Underneath, his thermal Henley clung to broad shoulders and a tapered waist. I made myself look away. "You shouldn't have to thank someone for basic decency."
"Most people don't drive through a blizzard to bring batteries."
"Most people don't know what it's like to have the mountain take something from them." He moved to the wood stove, adding two more logs with practiced efficiency. "I do."
I watched him work, the economical movements, the way he checked the damper and the air flow, the quiet competence of someone who'd spent years in these mountains. When he straightened, brushing bark from his hands, I realized how close we were standing.
Close enough to see the scar through his eyebrow. Close enough to smell snow and pine and something darker underneath. Close enough that the air between us felt charged.
"Griffin." My voice was barely a whisper. "What happened to you?"
His jaw tightened. For a moment, I thought he'd shut down. Then he moved to the window, staring out at the white void beyond.
"I lost two teammates on a ridge extraction. Washington, three years ago." His voice was flat, controlled. "Wind event. Sudden and severe. They were clipped to my line when the anchor failed."
My chest constricted. "You held them."
"Until I couldn't." He didn't look at me. "Felt the rope go light. That's what haunts me. Not the fall, not the impact. That moment when the weight disappeared and I knew they were gone."
I understood that haunting. The specific, visceral detail that replayed endlessly.
"Mine was a teenager," I said quietly. "Seventeen. Alpine face in Colorado. Ice shear fractured above us during the extraction. I managed to swing clear. He didn't."
Griffin turned, his eyes finding mine in the firelight.
"He was suspended upside-down," I continued. "I was descending to stabilize him when the block broke loose. I watched him fall. Watched the rope swing empty. And then I just, hung there. In the dark. Couldn't move. Couldn't breathe."
"That's why the lights..."
"Yeah." I wrapped my arms around myself. "Darkness and falling. Great combination."
He crossed the room in two strides. Stopped just short of touching me, his presence solid and warm and steadying.
"It wasn't your fault," he said.
"Intellectually, I know that. Emotionally?" I laughed, bitter. "Different story."
"Same." His hand lifted, hesitated, then brushed a strand of hair from my face. The touch was gentle. Careful. "But you're still here. Still doing the work. That takes more courage than most people have."
"Or more stupidity."
"No." His thumb traced my cheekbone, just once. "Courage. I see it. Even if you don't."
The air went thin. Heat followed the touch like he’d marked me. His hand dropped, but he didn't step back. We stood there, inches apart, while the wind screamed outside and the fire crackled inside, and something dangerous built between us.
"I should go," he said. Didn't move.
"You should." Didn't step away.
"Storm's getting worse. I might not make it back to my place."
"There's a couch."
His eyes darkened. "Ava..."
"I'm not asking for anything except..." I stopped, surprised by my own honesty. "Except not to be alone in the dark. That's all."
He studied my face for a long moment. Then nodded, slow and deliberate.
His breath caught, quiet, but there.
"Okay."
We fell into an easy rhythm. Griffin checked the perimeter, reinforcing the draft barriers around the windows and door. I made sandwiches from the supplies he'd brought, good bread, sharp cheddar, and deli turkey. We ate by lantern light, not talking much, just existing in the same space.
It should've been awkward. Instead, it felt natural.
Every time his knee brushed the table, my pulse jumped like it remembered the truck.
After dinner, he pulled out a piece of wood and a carving knife. I watched him work, the blade moving in sure, confident strokes, shaving away curls that fell to the floor like snow.
"What are you making?" I asked.
"Don't know yet." He turned the wood, examining it from different angles. "Sometimes you don't know until it shows you."
I settled into the armchair, my coffee mug warming my hands. "How long have you been carving?"
"Since I was a kid. My grandfather taught me." A slight smile softened his face. "Said every mountain man needs a way to think without talking."
"Does it work?"
"Most of the time."
He didn’t look at me while he said it, but something tightened in his jaw.
We lapsed into comfortable silence. The wind howled, but inside the cabin, everything was warm and safe. I felt my body begin to relax, the tension that had been my constant companion for months finally easing.
"Tell me about the SAR team," I said eventually. "What's the dynamic like?"
Griffin set down his knife, considering. "Small. Six of us, including Rafe. We run lean because the call volume doesn't justify more. Mostly alpine rescues, some swift water in spring, occasional lost hiker."
"Technical rope experience?"
"Rafe and one other. That's why we need you. Most of the extractions we do are basic, trail injuries, and exposure cases. But when we get a high-angle call, we're stretched thin."
"What about equipment?"
"Solid. Rafe doesn't cut corners on gear." He picked up the carving again, his hands steady. "You'll have access to whatever you need. Training budget's tight, but if you can justify it, he'll find the money."
I nodded, filing that away. "And the mountains? What am I walking into?"
His expression went serious. "Bitterroot doesn't forgive. Weather turns fast, terrain's unforgiving, and people underestimate both. We lose someone every few years." He paused. "Rafe's good, though. Best lead I've worked with. He'll have your back."
"What about you?"
His eyes met mine. "What about me?"
"Will you have my back?"
"Always." No hesitation. Just certainty.
The word settled into my chest, warm and solid.
The wind gusted hard enough to shake the walls. Griffin glanced at the window, then stood. "I'm going to check the roof. Snow's accumulating fast."
"I'll help..."
"Stay inside where it's warm." He pulled on his jacket. "Won't take long."
He disappeared into the storm before I could argue.
I paced the cabin, restless energy buzzing under my skin. The lanterns cast long shadows, and I made myself breathe through the instinctive spike of anxiety. Just shadows. Just wind. Nothing falling. Nothing broken.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
The door opened, and Griffin stumbled inside on a gust of wind and snow. He shoved it closed, breathing hard.
"Accumulation's worse than I thought," he said, brushing snow from his hair. "We're looking at three feet by morning. Maybe more."
"You can have the bed."
He shook his head. "I'll take the couch."
"Griffin..."
"It's fine. I've slept in worse places."
But as the night wore on and the temperature dropped, I realized the couch wasn't going to work. The cabin's heat came from the wood stove, and the loft held warmth better than the main room.
"This is ridiculous," I said around midnight, watching him add another log to the fire. "The loft has a double bed. We're both adults. We can share without..."
His gaze dropped, briefly, to my mouth.
"Without what?" His voice was rough.
Without me wanting to close the distance between us. Without wondering what your hands would feel like on my skin. Without forgetting every reason this is a terrible idea.
"Without making it weird," I finished.
He stared at me for a long moment. Then nodded, sharp and decisive. "Fine. But I'm staying on top of the covers."
"Deal."
We climbed the ladder to the loft. The bed was bigger than I expected when I first saw it, piled with quilts and flannel sheets, now it felt smaller with him looking at it.
I slid under the covers, still in my thermal layers, and felt the mattress dip as Griffin settled on top of the blankets, as far to the edge as physically possible.
The space between us felt like a canyon.
And a single breath.
"Goodnight, Ava," he said quietly.
"Goodnight."
Something inside me leaned toward him, small and stupid and hopeful.
I closed my eyes, hyper-aware of his warmth beside me, of the sound of his breathing, of the fact that this man I'd known for less than a day felt safer than anyone I'd been close to in years.
Sleep came slowly.
But when it did, it was dreamless.