Chapter 6 Davin
Chapter six
Davin
I’m halfway through measuring the oak for Tilly’s floating shelves when my phone vibrates in my back pocket. My older brother Alban’s not the type to call without purpose. My jaw tightens.
I step onto the porch. Cold air shocks my skin. My breath fogs the air. “Hey.”
“You haven’t said much lately,” Alban says. His voice comes through clear despite the distance between Montana and Virginia.
“Been busy.”
“Neve says you met someone.” He’s probably standing in their kitchen in Granitehart Ridge, coffee in hand, looking out at the Shenandoah Mountains the way I’m looking at the Rockies. “She knows someone with family in Lovesbury. Said you shut down a bachelor auction for her.”
“I did.”
Silence stretches between us. Wind moves through the pines, a low whistle that makes the trees creak.
Alban’s learning to wait instead of push, a skill he’s developed since marrying Neve.
The man who used to fill every silence with solutions now knows when to let quiet do the work. “You want to talk about it?”
“Not much to say. Met a woman. She matters.”
“It’s moving fast.”
“Yeah.” A hawk circles overhead. “It is.”
“Does she know about the fire?”
My jaw tightens. “Some of it.”
“Davin—”
“I know what you’re going to say.”
“Do you?” His voice carries the weight of someone who’s watched me punish myself for a few years.
Who drove thirty hours to Montana when I left the firehouse and found me half-feral in this cabin I was building with my bare hands.
“Because I’m going to say it anyway. You deserve good things.
You deserve to be happy. What happened wasn’t your fault. ”
“I was the team lead. I made the call.” The words taste like old ashes. I’ve said them so many times they’ve worn grooves in my throat.
“You made the call based on the information you had. The building collapsed faster than anyone expected.” Alban’s tone goes firm in that older brother way that used to piss me off when we were kids. Now it just makes my chest feel too tight. “You’ve carried this long enough. Let it go.”
The words won’t come. Letting go feels like betrayal, like forgetting, like deciding the loss doesn’t matter. My hand grips the porch railing until splinters bite into my palm. “I don’t know how.”
“Start by accepting that happiness isn’t a debt you have to earn.” Neve’s voice comes through the phone now, closer like Alban’s put it on speaker. “Alban struggled with the same thing after his accident. He thought he had to prove he was still useful before he deserved to be loved.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?” she challenges, and I hear the whisk against a bowl.
She’s working while she talks, the way she always does.
“You’re both good men who made impossible choices and blamed yourselves when the outcome wasn’t perfect.
But punishing yourself doesn’t honor what you lost. Building a good life does. ”
Her words echo what I told Tilly days ago.
“This woman,” Alban says. “She’s the real thing?”
“Yeah.” The certainty in my voice surprises me. My throat feels raw, exposed. “She is.”
“Then stop sabotaging yourself by believing she deserves better than what you are.” His voice drops lower, the way it does when he’s about to say something that costs him.
“I almost lost Neve that way. I pushed her away because I was convinced she’d be better off without a man who couldn’t save people when it counted. Don’t make my mistakes.”
“How did you get past it?” The question scrapes out of me.
“I let her choose.” Simple words. Impossible execution. “Stopped deciding for her what she could handle. Stopped protecting her from myself. Just laid it all out and let her decide if I was worth the work.”
“And if she’d said no?”
“Then at least I would’ve known I gave her the choice instead of making it for her.”
Neve’s voice again, gentle but unyielding. “Davin, from what I know about you, you’re the kind of man who carries everything so others don’t have to. I bet you’re carrying something for this new woman of yours. Sometimes the greatest gift you can give someone is letting them carry you back.”
We talk for another ten minutes. Alban tells me about a custom cabinet job he’s designing.
Neve describes a wedding cake disaster that somehow turned into her most popular design.
Their voices blend together with an ease that speaks of years and choice and showing up even when it’s hard.
When I hang up, the sun has climbed higher, warming the air by degrees but doing nothing for the cold settling in my bones.
Inside, Tilly’s humming while she inventories stock for the shop.
The sound carries through the walls, domestic and easy, and my body responds before my mind can catch up.
My pulse kicks. My hands ache to reach for her.
Every instinct I have says go to her, pull her close, make sure she knows she’s mine.
But what if Alban’s wrong? I’ve been so busy claiming her that I never stopped to think about the future.
What if the intensity I feel is too much, too fast, too consuming?
She’s probably falling for me because I’m the first person who’s been kind to her since her breakup.
What if I reach for her the way I’m aching to and she recognizes the truth: that I’m not steady or careful, just desperate and barely restrained?
I should go back inside. Help her finish the list. Make lunch. Keep building the foundation we’ve started.
Instead, I stand in the doorway and watch her work.
She’s wearing one of my flannels over her shirt, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows.
She tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s concentrating, bites her bottom lip when she’s uncertain.
Every small gesture makes me want to cross the room and show her exactly how thoroughly she’s gotten under my skin.
The wanting is a physical ache in my spine, a restless energy that makes my hands shake.
I move to the kitchen and pour coffee I don’t want. The mug is warm against my palms.
“Everything okay?” she asks without looking up from her screen.
“Yeah. Just my brother Alban checking in.”
“How is he?”
“Good. He and his wife Neve are doing well.” I lean against the counter, keeping the island between us like a barrier. “They’re in Granitehart Ridge, Virginia, Shenandoah Mountains. They want to meet you sometime.”
“I’d like that.” She turns back to her screen, and the easy dismissal makes my jaw clench. She should demand more. Should push me to explain why I’m standing ten feet away when every cell in my body is screaming to close the distance.
“I’m almost done with inventory,” she continues. “Once the roads are fully clear tomorrow, we can start moving things into the shop.”
“Sounds good.”
She glances at me, and her expression shifts. Those sharp eyes miss nothing. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Fine.” The word comes out flat, unconvincing.
She closes her laptop and stands. When she crosses the space between us, my entire body goes taut with awareness. Her hand comes up to cup my jaw, and the touch sends heat straight down my spine. Her palm is warm against my skin, and I have to lock my knees to keep from leaning into it.
“Talk to me,” she says.
“Nothing to talk about.”
“That’s not true.” Her thumb strokes across my cheekbone, and the gentle touch makes my throat feel tight. “Something’s bothering you. I can see it.”
I pull back, needing distance before I do something stupid like pin her against the counter and show her exactly what’s bothering me. “It’s not important.”
“If it’s affecting you, it’s important to me.”
The words hang heavy in the air. I set my mug down and put more space between us. “I’m fine, Tilly. Just tired.”
Hurt flashes across her face. She doesn’t hide it fast enough, and seeing it makes guilt claw up my throat. “Okay.”
The single word carries weight. She doesn’t push, doesn’t demand, just accepts my withdrawal and turns back to her laptop.
The afternoon drags in careful silence. I try to work on the shelves, but my hands won’t cooperate. Every cut is wrong. I want to throw the tape measure hard enough to leave a dent in the wall. Instead, I give up in silence, already missing what could’ve been between us.
Tilly works at the dining table, pen scratching paper.
She finishes her work and stands. “I’m going to bed early. Big day tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
She moves toward the bedroom, then pauses with her hand on the doorframe. “Davin?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever you’re working through, I’m here when you’re ready to talk about it.”
The door closes softly behind her. Not a slam. Worse. The quiet acceptance that I’ve already pulled away.
I stay on the couch, staring at the fire. Flames dance and crack, consuming wood and leaving ash.
Morning comes gray and cold. Tilly emerges dressed for work, hair pulled back. She’s wearing her own clothes, not my thermal shirt.
“Roads should be clear today,” she says without looking at me. “I need to get back to my apartment. Start prep for the opening.”
“I’ll drive you.” The words feel inadequate. I want to do more than drive her. I want to strip her out of those clothes and remind her body what mine already knows. That we fit. That this is right even when it’s hard.
She nods and moves to gather her things. I watch her pack her laptop and notebook, her movements efficient. Her shoulders are stiff, held too carefully. She’s already pulling away, protecting herself from whatever distance I’ve created.
The drive into town is quiet. Snow covers everything in white, pristine and unmarked. The roads are clear, chains no longer necessary.
When I pull up to her apartment building, she reaches for the door handle immediately.
“Tilly.”
She pauses but doesn’t look at me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “For yesterday. For pulling back.”
“It’s fine.” Her voice is steady, controlled. “You don’t owe me explanations.”
“Yes, I do.” I reach for her hand, and she lets me take it. Her skin is cold, fingers stiff. “You shared your fears with me. Let me see your vulnerable places. I should do the same.”
She turns to face me finally. “Then do it. Talk to me.”
The invitation hangs between us. I could tell her everything.
Could explain that I’m terrified of failing her the way I failed before.
That loving her feels like standing at the edge of something vast, knowing one wrong step could destroy us both.
That the intensity I feel scares me because I’ve never wanted anything this much, and wanting always leads to losing.
Instead, I say, “I will. Just not right now.”
Disappointment flickers across her face. She pulls her hand from mine and opens the door. Cold air rushes in, stealing the warmth we’ve been sitting in. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
She’s out before I can respond. She climbs the stairs without looking back. The door closes with finality.
I sit in the truck after she disappears inside, engine idling. My fingers go numb on the wheel.
Alban’s words replay in my mind. Don’t sabotage it because you think you don’t deserve her.
But what if he’s wrong? What if the most loving thing I can do is step back before she realizes I’m not the steady, careful man she needs but something darker and more desperate? Before she sees how thoroughly I want to own every part of her life?
The thought makes my chest ache. But the fear underneath is stronger. The fear that if I let myself have her completely, I’ll consume her the way fire consumes everything it touches.
I drive back to the cabin. The space feels empty without her in it. Her coffee cup still sits in the sink. I pick it up, and the ceramic is cold in my hands. I should wash the mug. Instead, I set it back down and move to the bedroom.
The bed is made with military precision, every corner tucked tight.
But her scent lingers on the pillow, lavender and something warmer that’s just her.
A strand of her dark hair rests on the quilt.
I press my face into her pillow and breathe deeply.
The wanting is so intense that it makes my hands shake.
My phone vibrates. A text from Tilly: Thank you for everything. Looks like you need some space. I’ll figure out the opening on my own.
The message is a cold stone in my gut. She’s already assuming I’m done. Already planning to handle it alone because I’ve proven I can’t be relied on. Because I’ve done exactly what every other person in her life has done: made her believe she’s too much work.
I type and delete three responses before settling on I’m not backing out. I’ll be there.
She doesn’t respond.
I check my phone every five minutes for the next hour. Nothing.
The sun sets behind the mountains, painting the snow orange and gold through the window.
The light fades to purple, then gray, then black.
Inside the cabin, I build up the fire and try to convince myself I’m doing the right thing by creating distance.
By protecting her from my inability to be what she needs.
But sitting here alone in the space that still smells like her, I know the truth.
I’m not protecting her. I’m protecting myself.
And in doing so, I’m proving every fear she’s ever had about being too much work, about people leaving when things get hard.
Tomorrow, I’ll fix this. Tomorrow, I’ll show up at her shop and prove I’m not going anywhere. Tomorrow, I’ll find the words to explain that the distance isn’t about her. It’s about me figuring out that good things don’t have to be temporary.
But tonight, I sit alone with my guilt and my wanting.
Punishing myself doesn’t honor what I lost. It just ensures I keep losing.
Tomorrow, I choose differently.
Tomorrow, I choose her.