Chapter Twelve
Ava
If there’s one universal truth about Silver Ridge, it’s that the town clings to its traditions with the same stubborn devotion it gives to snowfall.
Storms roll in as regularly as sunrise, casseroles appear on porches like offerings to the winter gods, and the locals jump to conclusions faster than a paramedic to a distress call.
It’s a rhythm, a ritual, a small-town heartbeat.
It’s barely past noon when I shrug on my jacket and call toward the bedroom, “Violet, honey? I’m running down to Miller’s Market for a few things.”
“Okay!” she calls back. “Do I have to come?”
“Nope. Stay warm. Do your schoolwork.”
There’s a quiet beat, then: “Is Jax going with you?”
Before I can answer, the man himself appears in the hallway like a summoned ghost—arms crossed, jaw set, eyes narrowed in deep suspicion.
“I’m coming,” he says.
I pause mid-zip. “You really don’t have to come.”
“I need things,” he says.
That’s it. No elaboration. No list. No glance toward a pantry he knows is already stocked. Just two words delivered in the stiff, uncomfortable tone of a man inventing an escape hatch on the spot.
He pulls on his coat with unnecessary focus, like the zipper might reveal a better lie if he stares at it long enough.
Right. Sure. He needs things.
Translation: he absolutely does not want to be left alone with a fourteen-year-old he barely knows, because he is convinced she might combust, or cry, or ask him a personal question, or look at him for more than four seconds—any of which would cause him to self-destruct.
“This is because she’s fourteen, isn’t it?” I ask, tugging on my boots.
His silence is immediate.
Heavy.
And very much the most eloquent yes I’ve ever heard.
***
The bell over Miller’s Market jingles when we step inside, releasing a whoosh of warm air, the scent of soup, and enough whispered commentary to power the whole town through winter.
I barely manage to stomp snow off my boots before the first voice floats over from the bakery counter:
“Ava Dawson’s shacking up with the mountain hermit.”
I stop. Jax, behind me, stops harder. We nearly recreate a two-person avalanche right in aisle one.
“Oh, heavens,” Mrs. Parker says—the woman is basically our town oracle. “I heard she dragged him out of that avalanche with her bare hands.”
“Bare hands?” someone gasps. “She’s sturdier than she looks.”
“She always has been,” another adds proudly, like she once trained me in competitive avalanche victim extraction.
Behind me, Jax mutters under his breath, “I should’ve moved to Alaska.”
I elbow him gently. “Calm down.”
He looks anything but calm. He looks like he’d rather chew tinfoil in a lightning storm.
We navigate the aisles like fugitives dodging laser sensors, but the whisper network follows us like a well-meaning but extremely nosy ghost.
“They’re living together.”
“Well, what choice did they have?”
“Someone should bake her a pie.”
“Oh, absolutely. Maybe two pies.”
Jax’s jaw ticks so sharply I’m surprised a tooth doesn’t shoot across the cereal aisle.
We grab the essentials—bread, fruit, soup, coffee (for him), a bag of Violet’s preferred Spicy Soul-Healing Chips—and make a beeline for checkout. The teen at the counter scrolls his phone without looking up.
Then he glances up. Freezes.
Blushes the color of a boiled lobster.
“Oh—uh—you two are… like… together, right?”
Jax inhales sharply through his nose, visibly deploying every coping strategy he owns.
“We’re not—” I start.
“She’s just staying at my cabin,” Jax clips out, voice arctic.
The kid nods too fast. “Right! Totally! Innocent! But, like… if you were together, people would be happy.”
The urge to evaporate on the spot is strong.
I grab the groceries and practically drag Jax toward the exit before the poor boy implodes from secondhand mortification.
But the second we step outside, the air shifts.
A knot of tourists stands nearby admiring the mountains, phones raised. Snow sparkles on the rooftops, the sky blue after a week of storm, and of course people want pictures.
One tourist lifts his phone. Not toward us—just toward the ridge.
Jax moves. Not dramatically.
Just… deliberately. Two steps to the side. Chin down. Shoulders angled away. The kind of movement you make when you’ve practiced disappearing in plain sight.
A flinch disguised as coincidence.
I blink. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” he says too quickly.
“You sure? Because you looked—”
“I said I’m fine.”
Not cold. Not cruel. Just… sealed.
He helps load the groceries into the bed of his truck, efficient and silent. But his eyes keep flicking toward the tourists. Toward their cameras. Toward anything that could capture a face he apparently doesn’t want captured.
When he closes the tailgate, I rest my hand on the metal, watching him carefully.
“Jax,” I say softly. “Are you—”
“No.” The word is quiet but final. “Let it go.”
I should. I should absolutely let it go.
But I’m a Dawson, which means curiosity and stubbornness were coded into my DNA at birth.
So instead I meet his gaze and file the moment away like evidence.
A man who doesn’t want to be photographed. A man who reacts to cameras like they’re loaded weapons. A man who walked straight into an avalanche like he didn’t care if the mountain swallowed him.
Who exactly did I drag out of the snow?
He turns away, opening my door for me like a brusque gentleman trying not to burn his own hand on kindness.
“Get in,” he murmurs.
“Sure,” I say just as softly. “But one day you’re going to tell me what that was.”
His jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer.
The storm outside is finally gone. But the one inside this man is nowhere close to settling.
And I have a feeling I’m standing right at the edge of it.
***
We’ve been back at the cabin for maybe twenty minutes when the knocks start.
Not one knock. A parade of knocks.
I open the door to find Mrs. Parker holding a casserole the size of a small continent.
“Ava, honey,” she coos, elbowing her way inside before I can protest, “we heard about the roof situation at the clinic and wanted to make sure you and Violet have enough food while things are up in the air.”
Behind her are two more women carrying bags of groceries, a freshly baked loaf of bread, and what appears to be a homemade quilt.
“Roof situation?” I echo, stomach tightening.
Mrs. Parker nods sadly. “That last storm did more damage. Insurance won’t cover it. Fundraiser’s falling apart. Town board’s in a tizzy.”
A cold thread of fear unspools in my ribs.
If the clinic goes under… If they cut more services… If Violet loses access to her care…
No. I shove the thought aside. Not here. Not in front of neighbors with casseroles and good intentions.
“Thank you,” I manage. “We’re… managing.”
They sweep inside anyway, chatting and clucking like mother hens. Violet beams—because casseroles mean cheese—but Jax stands rigid in the corner of the living room like a giant, pissed-off sentry whose home has just been invaded by politely weaponized kindness.
“Isn’t this lovely,” Mrs. Parker declares. “All of you under one roof. Cozy as anything.”
Jax emits a low sound that is 70% disbelief, 20% dread, and 10% “I’m going to chop firewood until dawn.”
I catch his eye. He looks miserable. I grin. I can’t help it.
The switch flips in him instantly. An almost-glare. A silent don’t enjoy this.
Which, naturally, makes me enjoy it even more.
After the fourth casserole drop-off and the third lecture about proper winter hydration, the last neighbor finally leaves. The cabin falls quiet.
Jax rubs both hands over his face. “Do they always do that?”
“Pretty much,” I say, leaning against the counter. “Silver Ridge doesn’t mind its own business. It minds yours. Loudly.”
He groans into his palms. “This is a nightmare.”
“You get used to it.”
“I don’t want to get used to it.”
I smile down into the casserole in my hands, warmth rising up beneath my ribs like a slow-building ember.
For a man who hates company, hates attention, hates being seen at all… He let us in.
And for reasons I can’t name yet, that sits warm and unsettling in my chest.