Chapter Fifteen
Edwina
Morning crept in beneath the weight of snowfall, not gentle but insistent, each flake settling against the glass until the world outside disappeared into pale silence.
The light that slipped through the thin crack in the curtains was faint, diffused through frost, turning the room into a blurred painting where edges ceased to exist and everything felt suspended.
I blinked toward the ceiling, white, unfamiliar, too clean, and found the sheets twisted around my legs, tangled proof of a night spent fighting sleep.
The air still carried the residue of warmth from the radiator, uneven and restless, the hum of its adjustment blending with the faint sound of wind pressing against the window.
Aster’s coat hung half off the chair by the desk, a sleeve brushing the carpet, while the faint smell of cedar and coffee from the lobby seeped through the walls.
Somewhere down the corridor, laughter drifted, light and careless, the sound of others who didn’t have ghosts riding their shoulders.
The drive here had been long, three hours of winding roads coiling through mountain fog, the tires gripping patches of ice that shone like old glass.
Most students had taken the university buses, voices spilling over the hum of engines, all energy and easy noise.
Gwen had insisted we take her car, declaring she trusted her driving more than a graduate student with a caffeine addiction behind a wheel.
I had agreed, smiled, made jokes about playlists and snacks.
But every curve in the road, every hum of the tires against the frozen asphalt, made my fingers tighten in my lap.
I hadn’t told them why. They knew only fragments, the part where I didn’t like highways, didn’t like the silence that followed when the radio faltered.
Not the rest. Not the memory of metal compressing against metal, the sound of it tearing the world in half, the way time stuttered and folded inward, leaving me gasping between heartbeats.
I sat up, the sheets sliding down my legs, the air biting against bare skin, dry enough to sting.
Gwen was gone, her suitcase a forgotten ghost by the door before she’d vanished into Zayn’s room with a laugh that still seemed to echo faintly through the lodge halls.
Aster was asleep still, her curls spilling over her pillow, one arm hanging off the bed, mumbling into her dreams, untouched by the weight that seemed to anchor me.
I listened to her breathing, slow, even. A small part of me envied it.
The lodge—Silver Hollow—was everything it promised to be in the brochure, exposed beams, glass windows that framed the slopes beyond, a fireplace flickering somewhere down the hall.
Every detail meant to soothe, to distract, to convince you that life could be simple if you just stayed still long enough.
I was trying. God, I was trying. Trying to let this weekend mean nothing more than escape.
To forget the shape of his hands, the sound of his voice, the gravity that seemed to pull me toward him no matter how much distance I carved between us.
But he lived somewhere in the quiet between my breaths, beneath the calm I pretended to wear.
His silence filled the space between thoughts, heavy and sharp, refusing to let me rest.
I told myself he wouldn’t come. That he was too controlled for this kind of gathering, too bound by professionalism and reputation to walk into a weekend surrounded by students.
And yet, under the quiet rhythm of that reasoning, something small and traitorous pulsed.
Doubt. And beneath it, worse still, hope.
I rose, feet pressing against the cold wood floor, and crossed to the mirror.
My reflection stared back, pale light brushing over the faint bruising of exhaustion beneath my eyes.
I ran my fingers through my hair, pushing it away from my face, the gesture automatic, mechanical.
The girl in the glass looked composed enough to fool anyone else, but I knew better.
I saw the tremor beneath the surface, the flicker that hadn’t gone out since that night in the studio.
He had looked at me as though he saw every fracture I’d tried to disguise.
And worse, he had nearly kissed me. And I had leaned in.
There was no undoing that. No pretending the air between us hadn’t broken open.
No rewriting the truth of that breathless moment that still lingered, pulsing under my skin.
As I pulled on my clothes, each movement felt heavier than it should have, weighted not with dread but with the kind of tension that coils quietly beneath the skin and waits to break.
It wasn’t fear, not quite, and it wasn’t regret either.
It was that thin thread of anticipation that hums when something inevitable is on the horizon.
I told myself it was nothing, just the altitude, the cold, the exhaustion from the drive.
But the truth pressed deeper. Some instinct already whispered what my mind refused to say aloud, whatever calm I’d hoped to find on this mountain would fracture the moment he appeared, if he came at all.
The cafeteria pulsed with a muted sort of chaos, the weary rhythm of bodies trying to adjust to morning after travel.
Conversations drifted in fragments, chairs scraped against wood, the dull clatter of cutlery carried through the air in uneven waves.
Frost clung to the windowpanes, catching the pale winter light, and the scent of coffee hung thick, tangled with cinnamon and the faint trace of wet snow melting off boots near the door.
I sat with Aster at one of the long wooden tables, the steam from my tea ghosting upward, disappearing before it could touch my face.
My fingers toyed with the handle of the cup, restless, betraying the tension sitting low in my stomach no matter how still I tried to keep them.
Sleep had been a failed experiment. The bed had swallowed me whole, too soft, the pillow too stiff beneath my neck, and the quiet had been anything but kind.
The night had left a residue in my body, a stiffness in my shoulders, a faint tremor beneath my ribs, a memory of the road that hadn’t quite left.
Every sharp curve on the way up here had scraped at old ghosts I’d buried too deep, and though the wheels had stayed steady, my mind hadn’t.
Aster had tried to make it better, filling the car with music, her voice rising over the hum of the heater as she scrolled through playlists.
“We’re chasing the brooding bastard out of your head,” she’d declared, and I had laughed, said something flippant.
But the sound had felt hollow even to me.
Because silence, the kind that stretched too long between songs, had its own language.
It crawled beneath my skin, whispered of the memory I kept pretending didn’t still live there.
The crash. The metal folding in on itself. The moment the world stopped breathing.
Now, I sat tearing apart the croissant on my plate piece by piece, shredding it until my fingertips were dusted in flakes. Across from me, Aster scrolled through her phone, her leg hooked under the other, that ridiculous red beanie still damp around the edges.
“You gonna eat that or just torture it to death?” she asked, her voice drifting somewhere between a tease and concern, eyes never leaving her screen.
I shrugged, reaching for the tea. “Still waking up.”
It wasn’t a lie. Just not the full truth either.
Across the room, Gwen sat with Zayn in the far corner, heads bent together, their laughter blending softly into the background noise. The sight stirred something tight in my chest, small but sharp, the kind of ache you pretend not to notice. I looked away.
And then the shift came. Subtle, nearly imperceptible My fingers stilled on the rim of my cup. The faint hairs along my neck rose in quiet warning.
“Hey,” a voice cut in. Not his. A different tone entirely.
I turned, and found two male students standing across the table.
The first—tall, lean, with a mop of chestnut curls that defied gravity, was grinning with the easy charm of someone used to being liked.
His tray was crowded with food, eggs, toast, muffins stacked with careless balance, and yet he managed it one-handed, confidence in every movement.
The second stood beside him, broader, steadier in his stance, his navy fleece pulled taut across his shoulders.
His hair was neat, his jaw shadowed in a way that felt purposeful.
His gaze moved across the table, pausing on Aster, then flicking briefly to me before settling again, the faint curve of a half-smile tugging at his mouth, measured, practiced, knowing exactly what effect it carried.
“Mind if we join you?” he asked.
The noise of the cafeteria faded to a hum, the scent of coffee thick in my lungs, and somewhere beneath the practiced calm of my nod, a pulse began to race that had nothing to do with caffeine.
Aster looked up from her phone, one brow curving upward in a gesture that balanced amusement and appraisal, her expression saying more than words ever could.
“Sure,” she said, sliding along the bench to make room, her tone laced with that effortless confidence she wore like a second skin. “But only if you come with a side of good conversation.”
The boy with the dimples grinned, a flash of mischief cutting through the lazy ease of his posture. “That depends,” he said, dropping his tray onto the table. “Are you more of a ‘should pineapple be on pizza’ kind of crowd?”