Chapter 10 #2
I clean the area around the splinter first, with gentle swipes of the antiseptic. He doesn’t flinch, but I feel the tension in his hand.
"You can tell me if it hurts," I say quietly.
"I won’t."
Hiding a smile, I hold up the magnifying glass, examining the angle. The splinter goes deeper than I initially thought—maybe half an inch into the flesh. I'll need to be careful.
"Hmm," I murmur, more to myself than him. "I'm going to apply pressure here to stabilize the tissue, then extract in one smooth motion. Ready?"
"Go ahead."
I position the tweezers, my other hand pressed gently against his palm to keep it steady. His skin is warm beneath my fingers, and I'm suddenly very aware of how close we're sitting. How focused he is on my face rather than what I'm doing to his hand.
I grip the exposed end of the splinter and pull—slow, steady, following the angle of entry.
It comes out clean.
"There." I hold it up for him to see. "One piece. No fragments."
"Nicely done."
I set the splinter aside and reach for fresh gauze. "I'm not finished yet."
I dab at the small wound, clearing away the blood so I can see if there's any debris left behind.
"This might be overkill for a splinter, but humor me."
I glance up at him.
The muscle in his jaw tightens, and his gaze drops to my mouth for half a second before snapping back up.
I swallow, heart fluttering, mouth dry, and tasting nothing but nerves.
I wrap the bandage around his palm, my fingers brushing against his as I secure it.
"What's this scar from?" I ask, tracing a thin white line along his knuckle without thinking.
"Training accident. Years ago." His voice has gone quieter. "Forgot to check my brass before a live fire drill."
I nod, still holding his hand longer than necessary. Still touching that scar like I have any right to.
"All done," I finally manage, but I don't let go.
Neither does he; instead, his thumb brushes against the side of my hand, a slow, deliberate pressure that makes the rest of the room fall away.
My phone rings, shattering the moment.
I pull my hand back quickly, reach for it on the counter, and check the screen.
With a nod from Silas, I answer. "Hello?"
"Dr. Morrison, it's Janet. I wanted to update you on your mother."
I brace myself. "Yes?"
"The X-rays came back clear. No fractures, no breaks. Just some bruising that should heal on its own with rest."
A knot of tension works its way free at the news. “She's okay?"
"She's doing well! When I went to check on her this afternoon, she remembered my name. Asked me if I could read to her from her Amy Carmichael book."
My throat tightens. "She remembered you?"
"Clear as day. Even told me which chapter she wanted." Janet's voice is warm. "I know these moments don't always last, but I thought you'd want to know she's having a good day."
"Thank you." The words come out thick. "Thank you so much for calling."
"Of course. We'll keep monitoring her, but she's comfortable and not in any pain."
I end the call and just sit there, phone in my hand, trying not to cry.
"Ava?"
Silas's voice is gentle.
I look up at him, and the relief breaks through—but with it comes the regret, sharp and bitter. The guilt that I wasn't there to see her lucid moment. Wasn't there to hear her voice when it was really her.
She recognized someone. And it wasn’t me.
"She's okay," I manage. "No breaks. And she—" My voice cracks. "She was lucid for a while."
"That's good news," Silas says carefully.
"It is." I nod, but tears are already blurring my vision. "It's wonderful news. Except I wasn't there. I wasn't there to see it, to talk to her while she was still... herself."
The words tumble out before I can stop them.
"Those moments are so rare now. Sometimes weeks go by where she doesn't know who I am, and today—today she was there, really there, and I missed it because I'm hiding in the mountains."
My hands are shaking. "I should have been there. I should have—"
I don't even finish the sentence. Silas is already moving, a blur of dark fabric and sudden intent. He hesitates for a heartbeat—a pulsing fraction of a second—and then he’s hauling me into him.
I don't just "let" him. I collapse. My knees turn to water, and I anchor myself to the rough cotton of his shirt, my fingers clawing at his sides as if he’s the only thing keeping me from dissolving into the floorboards. I break against his chest for the second time today, and it’s a messy, jagged ruin of a feeling. I’m so profoundly grateful he’s made of stone, because I’m currently made of glass.
His hand slides into my hair, supporting the base of my skull. It’s the only thing keeping me upright. I let my head fall back into his touch, too tired to keep up the pretense of being fine.
"You're stronger than you realize," he murmurs, his breath warm against my hair.
I let out a sound that’s half-sob, half-laugh, and it tastes like salt. "I’m not. I’m barely holding on, Silas. I can’t do this alone anymore."
I feel his muscles lock, his biceps turning to iron against my back as he pulls me even tighter, trying to squeeze the air back into my lungs. "You don't have to," he says. His voice isn't just steady; it’s an anchor dropped in the middle of my storm.
The air finally reaches the bottom of my lungs. That knot between my shoulder blades—the one I’ve been tightening for weeks finally begins to loosen. I go limp, burying my face in the hollow of his shoulder, and for the first time in a long time, I just... let someone else be strong.
Silas
The cabin is shrinking. The walls are closing in, squeezing the air out of the room until there’s nothing left to breathe but her.
Outside, the wind whistles through a seam in the window frame—a sharp, thin sound that cuts right through the heavy silence between us. The kitchen is too small. Ava is too close.
The feel of her is too intimate, the scent of her perfume a dopamine hit. It’s cloying, filling my lungs, making my pulse thud in my ears. I can’t move. If I do, the floorboards will groan, and the thin thread holding us both together is going to snap.
We can’t stay like this. If I don’t let go now, the line I can’t cross is going to vanish.
“I need to do a perimeter check,” I say, the words feeling tight as I finally force myself to step back. The cold air rushes into the space where she was.
Her eyes lock onto mine, a split second of something raw passes between us before she nods. “I’ll be right here.”
I drag myself away from her, head into my bedroom, and find the Glock I now consider hers in the drawer.
I hold it for a moment, consider leaving it—letting her finish the night without another reminder of how far she’s drifted from normal.
I want to let her believe, just a little longer, that a storm is only weather.
I take it anyway.
Prepared beats comfortable. Every single time.
When I get back, she’s in the kitchen wrestling with a rusty can opener and a can of peaches.
Dessert presumably.
“I know you aren’t comfortable with this,” I say evenly, “While I’m out there, I want this within reach.”
I set it on the counter, safety on, grip angled toward her the way I showed her earlier. I don’t rush her. Rushing makes people miss details.
“You remember what I showed you?”
The slightest crinkle around her eyes gives her displeasure away. But she puts the can down and hovers her fingers over the gun, nodding.
“Good. I’ll only be a few minutes. If anything feels wrong—anything at all—you lock yourself in the bedroom and call for me. Understood?”
“Understood.”
I hold her gaze a beat longer, making sure she’s heard me, then turn for the door.
The snow is piling up exactly where Axel warned it would—against the north wall, drifting higher with every hour the wind holds its direction. It’s swallowing the cabin inch by inch.
The driveway is gone. No sign it was ever there.
I start a circuit, boots crunching through snow already knee-deep in places. Visibility is collapsing fast. Twenty feet in the gusts. Less when the wind surges and the white closes in.
If someone wanted to approach unseen, this would be the time.
Near the cabin, I rig what little warning I can.
Nothing clever. Nothing that could hurt the wrong person.
I run a length of line low across the lee side, tying it off to scrap metal tucked out of sight.
I set another closer to the back corner, where the wind drops and sound carries truer.
If it’s disturbed, it won’t stop anyone—but it’ll buy me a heartbeat.
My hand goes to the sidearm at my hip, checking its weight, its placement. Familiar. Necessary.
I check windows, corners, and the tree line where it still exists. The storm muffles everything beyond arm’s reach, sound swallowed whole. It’s the kind of quiet that hides movement rather than reveals it.
I know that feeling too well. I’ve lived it.
Lived this before.
The storm presses in the same way, the same white swallowing distance until the world shrinks to whatever stands within arm’s reach. For a moment, the cabin disappears, and the years fall away with it.
Images crash together, blurring until I can’t separate them.
Snow stings my cheeks where the mask doesn’t quite seal. It melts, refreezes, pulling tight when I move my jaw. My legs burn from holding position too long, muscles screaming for motion I won’t give them.
I raise a fist—hold—and the line freezes with me, bodies dissolving into timber and white.
We find the crash site just before dark.
I don’t know what it costs yet.
That comes later.
Days later.
Names I won’t forget.
I’ll never forget what my decision cost them.