Chapter Seven
Jax
The storm hits harder than the forecasts predicted—hard enough that the cabin walls tremble with every gust, hard enough that even the generator hums with a slight strain. I tightened the bolts this morning. Double-checked the wiring. Ran the system test twice.
Old habits die hard.
Or maybe they don’t die at all. Maybe they just go quiet long enough for you to pretend you’re someone else.
I’m in the workshop when I hear the knock. Three sharp raps on the door, swallowed almost instantly by wind.
My whole body goes still. No one knocks on my door.
People in Silver Ridge understand the unspoken rule: the new guy doesn’t want company. He doesn’t want small talk. He doesn’t want casseroles or welcome baskets or invitations to town bonfires. He wants distance.
He wants solitude. So the knock makes no sense.
Another set follows. Quicker. Lighter. Urgent.
I roll my eyes toward the ceiling. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I strip off my gloves, cross the dim cabin, and unlock the door—
And the wind immediately shoves a flurry of snow in my face, followed by two figures huddled under the porch overhang.
A woman, and a girl.
The woman I recognize instantly—brown hair plastered to her cheeks, lashes dusted white, jacket stiff with cold. The EMT. The one who dragged me out of the snow with more stubborn conviction than sense.
Ava.
She blinks up at me now, cheeks flushed from windburn, breath fogging in the air between us.
“Hi,” she says, voice loud over the storm. “Sorry to bother you, but we—”
“No.” The word is out before she can finish.
Her brows shoot up. “No?”
“No,” I repeat flatly. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”
Her mouth opens in absolute disbelief. “Selling? Seriously? Do I look like I’m here to sell you something?”
I give her a sweeping glance—wind-whipped hair, red nose, snow-soaked jeans, trembling teenager at her side.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe you’re selling poor decisions.”
Her jaw drops.
And the girl beside her—young, maybe fourteen—gives a tiny, breathless laugh. Just a puff of amusement like she wasn’t expecting me to say that.
I look at her more carefully—round cheeks flushed pink from the cold, curls escaping her hat, eyes wide but bright. She’s hugging her arms to her chest, shivering visibly.
A jolt hits my stomach. Not fear.
Something worse. Concern.
I straighten. “Why are you here?”
Ava squares her shoulders like she’s bracing for impact. “Your generator. People said you had one.”
I don’t answer. I just stare.
“Look,” she says, louder this time, fighting to be heard over another brutal gust of wind, “our heat is out. Half the town’s is. The storm is getting worse, and I can’t risk her insulin freezing.”
She nods at the girl, who stiffens as though being pointed out is the worst part of this entire ordeal.
“She’s diabetic,” Ava adds. “We need somewhere warm. Just until the grid stabilizes or the storm passes.”
“No,” I say again, but this time the word comes out quieter. Rougher.
Ava’s eyes flash. “Are you kidding me?”
“It’s a bad storm,” I say. “You shouldn’t have come out in it.”
Her mouth opens in outrage. “What—did you think we wanted to? You think we trudged up the mountain in a blizzard for fun?”
“I think you made a reckless choice,” I say.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she snaps, stepping forward with a glare fierce enough to thaw ice. “I forgot this town’s official avalanche enthusiast had strong opinions about safety.”
The girl snorts again, trying—and failing—not to grin.
I grit my teeth. “This isn’t the same.”
“No,” she fires back, “it’s not. You walked into danger because you didn’t care if you made it out. I walked into it because she needed me to.”
Silence punches between us. Snow whips across the porch.
Ava’s breath shivers out in front of her. So does the girl’s. Her lips are starting to lose color.
Something hard and ugly twists under my ribs.
Damn it. I step aside.
Ava freezes. “What are you—?”
“Get in,” I mutter. “Before the kid turns into a popsicle.”
Her shoulders drop a half inch, relief washing over her features before her pride takes over. “Thank you,” she says stiffly.
The girl ducks under my arm first, stepping into the warm cabin with wide, grateful eyes. And when she passes, she looks up at me—small, shy, exhausted—and gives me the tiniest, bravest smile.
Something inside me cracks so sharply I almost flinch.
She whispers, “Thank you, sir.”
Sir. God.
When’s the last time anyone said that without expectation? Without agenda? With real, earnest sincerity?
She moves past me as Ava steps in after her.
I close the door against the storm, the latch clicking into place with finality.
The cabin settles around us—warm, insulated, humming with the quiet steadiness of the generator.
Ava pulls off her coat, brushing melting snow from her hair. She looks softer in the low cabin light—still fierce, still fire-bright, but human in a way I’m not used to seeing up close.
“You okay?” she asks her daughter gently.
The girl nods. “Yeah. Just cold.”
I should turn away. I should hand them blankets, point them toward the spare room, and retreat into silence until they leave.
Instead, the girl steps a little closer, tugging off her hat with fingers still stiff from the cold. Curls tumble out around her face.
“Um… hi,” she says, offering a small smile that somehow manages to be both shy and brave. “I’m Violet.”
The name hits like a small, unexpected punch. Soft. Barely spoken. Completely disarming.
I clear my throat. “Jax.”
Her smile widens by the smallest fraction—just enough to tighten something low in my chest.
“It’s nice to meet you,” she says.
I can’t remember the last time someone said that to me and meant it without an agenda or pity.
Ava glances between us, something unreadable flickering in her eyes, before she turns and helps Violet out of her soaked boots. The cabin warms around them, shifting in a way I can’t quite explain.
And suddenly I’m aware of how small the space is. How warm it feels.
How different it feels.
“You saved us,” Ava says quietly.
I shake my head. “You’re the one who dragged me out of the snow first.”
“Still,” she says, “you didn’t have to open the door.”
No. I didn’t. But I did. Something in my chest shifts again—subtle, dangerous, unwanted.
I clear my throat. “I’ll get the fire going. You can take off your boots near the stove. It’ll keep them from freezing.”
Ava nods.
And the girl gives me that small, shy smile again, the kind that cracks through every layer of ice I’ve spent years building. It hits me square in the sternum. Hard enough that I have to look away.
I cross the room and kneel by the hearth, stacking kindling with practiced efficiency, grateful for something to do with my hands.
Behind me, I hear them settle in.
And for the first time in a long time, I’m not entirely sure I want the sound of the wind to drown out the sound of someone else breathing in my home.
Something has shifted. Something I cannot name.
But it’s here now—quiet, warm, persistent as the fire catching in the grate.
And whether I like it or not…
I let them stay.