Chapter Five
Jax
The lodge smells like pine-scented cleaner and burnt coffee—two things I’ve come to associate with penance. I didn’t want to come in today. I didn’t want to see anyone, talk to anyone, or feel the weight of their eyes crawling up my spine like a bad omen.
But the front desk radiator blew, and I’m the only “handyman” who knows how to fix the damn thing without setting the carpet on fire.
I crouch beside the radiator with a wrench and a scowl, pretending I can’t feel three separate sets of eyes drilling into the back of my skull from across the lobby.
Silver Ridge has never met a rumor it didn’t fall instantly in love with. And apparently “weird solitary guy rescued from avalanche by local EMT” is this week’s favorite child.
“Morning, Jax!”
That’s Mrs. Calder, one of the lodge owners. Eighty-five. Four-foot-nine. Built like a dried apricot with opinions. “Heard you had a little adventure the other day.”
I tighten a bolt harder than necessary. “It wasn’t an adventure.”
She hums like she doesn’t believe me. “Well, Ava Dawson saved your hide, didn’t she? Lucky the girl was on duty, or we’d be digging you out come spring.”
I twist another bolt. “Wasn’t her fault I was out there.”
“I didn’t say it was her fault,” she replies. “I’m saying you owe that woman a casserole.”
“I don’t cook.”
“Oh, sweetie, everyone knows.” She winks—winks—and toddles off toward the check-in desk.
I exhale through my teeth.
The lodge manager, Brian, leans over the counter. “Hey man, next time you wanna go avalanche-surfing, maybe wait for summer?”
I ignore him.
He keeps going, because of course he does. “Ava’s a beast, though. Saved little Joey Martin from choking on a jawbreaker last year. Carried Old Man Foster down the ravine after he busted his hip. Now she’s rescuing big guys like you—sheesh, woman’s unstoppable.”
My jaw ticks. I didn’t ask for commentary. I didn’t ask for her name heating the edges of my thoughts like some ember I can’t stomp out.
Ava Dawson.
Up close she’d looked… I don’t know. Warm. Too bright for someone who walked straight into a blizzard for a stranger.
I shouldn’t be thinking about her.
“She’s good at her job,” I say gruffly.
“Good?” Mrs. Calder calls from across the lobby. “She’s a damn heroine!”
I tighten the last bolt before I say something I’ll regret. “Radiator’s fixed.”
“Great, great,” Brian says, waving a hand. “Thanks. And hey—maybe keep your feet on the safe side of the mountain from now on, yeah?”
I grunt something that probably counts as acknowledgment and grab my tools. Anything to get out of the lobby before someone asks for a dramatic retelling of how I almost became a snow-flavored corpse.
But when I reach the front doors, I hear two ski instructors whispering near the rental counter.
“—they said she dragged him uphill. Uphill.”
“No way. Guy’s huge.”
“She’s stronger than she looks.”
“And nicer. She brought soup when Laney was sick last month. And toys for the kids’ drive. She’s like… sunshine in EMT form.”
I stop walking. Just for a second.
Sunshine.
It hits something inside my chest I thought had gone numb permanently.
I’m irritated by how much it irritates me.
Why the hell does anyone need to talk about her that way? Why does it matter? She did her job. I happened to be the unlucky bastard she dragged out of the snow. End of story.
Except it wasn’t, because the moment I let myself picture her kneeling over me—cheeks windburned, lashes dusted white, breath fogging between us—my heartbeat shifts, betrays me.
I shoulder past the rental counter and head outside, needing air, needing distance, needing noise that doesn’t sound like her laugh the night before when she said something sharp and sarcastic to Tom the ranger.
The cold helps. A little. Not enough.
By the time I’m back in my cabin that evening, the sun has fallen behind the ridge. The sky is a bruised navy, heavy with more snow. My hands shake when I lock the door behind me, and I have to breathe slowly through the wave of frustration that follows.
Nightmares started clawing at me again last night—worse than usual. The kind where I wake up gasping, soaked in sweat, sure I’m still in the overturned car with Emily’s hand slipping out of mine.
I know what the clinic doctor would recommend: therapy, support groups, medication.
I know what I’ll actually do: nothing.
The only thing that ever quieted the grief was sheer exhaustion. So I work, and walk, and fix things until my body gives out before my mind can drag me backward.
Tonight is no different. I put my coat back on, tie my boots, and head out into the cold.
The mountain air knifes into my lungs. It’s dark enough that porch lights glow like lonely fireflies. I take the back path through the pines, hoping the rhythmic crunch of snow beneath my boots will settle me.
It doesn’t.
The wind whistles through branches like a warning. Far off, the frozen lake groans. Shadows shift between tree trunks.
Every sound feels sharp. Every breath feels loud.
I try to focus on the path—on the burn in my calves, on the sting of air across my face—but my brain won’t let me.
It keeps circling back.
Not to the avalanche. Not to the lodge. Not to the whispers about Ava being some kind of local saint.
But to her voice.
Don’t fall asleep.
Keep your eyes open.
You don’t get to die today.
I clench my jaw and walk faster, pushing deeper into the dark.
I don’t want her voice in my head.
I don’t want her face flashing behind my eyes.
And I sure as hell don’t want the stupid flicker of guilt that’s been nipping at my heels all day.
She shouldn’t have had to pull me out of the snow. She shouldn’t have to deal with idiots who get themselves nearly killed. She shouldn’t have had to look into the eyes of a man who wishes she’d been too late.
The guilt festers, turning sour.
By the time my wandering brings me near the row of rental cabins, I’m tired—bone-tired—and ready to turn around before someone spots me and decides I’m social enough to chat.
I angle away from the main path… and that’s when I see it.
Her cabin.
A small, boxy silhouette tucked between two larger rentals.
And her lights are flickering. Not cozy flickering. Not candlelight.
Electrical flickering.
The kind that means bad wiring, overloaded circuits, or a faulty line about to start a fire.
I stop walking.
Just stand there, breath freezing in front of me, staring like an idiot.
It could be nothing. Old cabins do that. Lights flicker. Power surges. It’s fine.
But something in my chest tightens anyway.
A pulse of unease. A jolt of… worry?
I frown, annoyed by the feeling itself.
Why the hell would I worry about her?
She’s capable. Sharp. Tough enough to drag a full-grown man uphill through a blizzard. She doesn’t need someone checking on her wiring. She doesn’t need anything from me.
Still, the light flickers again—harder this time.
Once. Twice.
My gut twists.
I take a step toward her porch. Then stop.
What am I supposed to do? Knock on her door and say what? I noticed your lights were flickering and came to… help?
No. No, absolutely not. I force myself to turn away and walk home.
Ignore the fact that the image of her in the dark cabin keeps scraping at my thoughts—curly hair wild from the storm, cheeks still pink from the cold, that stubborn spark in her eyes.
I shouldn’t care. I don’t care.
But long after I’ve returned to my own cabin, stripped off my boots, and turned off the lights…
I’m still thinking about her porch light stuttering in the dark.
And the uncomfortable truth pulsing under it:
She shouldn’t matter at all.
So why does it feel like she already does?