Chapter Twenty-Four
Ava
Three days.
That’s how long it’s been since Jax told me the truth in that quiet kitchen. Since I told him I wasn’t leaving, but that I needed space to breathe.
And space is exactly what he’s given me. A respectful, torturous amount of space.
We move around each other carefully now.
Not cold—just cautious. He still makes coffee in the mornings, still checks the generator when the wind howls, and still softens whenever Violet talks to him.
But all the warmth he used to meet my gaze with…
it’s tucked away behind walls he rebuilt the second I asked for time.
Violet feels the shift. Kids always do.
She keeps shooting us looks—little curious glances like she’s tracing invisible lines in the air, trying to redraw the distance neither of us explains.
The silence between heartbeats stretches longer every day.
Late afternoon, my phone buzzes with a call from Ranger Tom.
“The repairs are done,” he says. “Roof’s patched. Heat stabilized. You can head back whenever you’re ready.”
Whenever I’m ready.
I thank him, and when I hang up, the words sit like ice in my throat.
Our cabin. Normal life. Routine.
I turn and find Jax leaning in the doorway, watching me with quiet restraint—like he already knows what the call was about.
“Well?” he asks.
“They’re cleared. We can move back tonight.” My voice sounds strange—too casual for the way my chest twists.
A flicker crosses his eyes. Relief? Hurt? I can’t tell.
Violet bursts through the hall just then, proud smile ready to show him a new sketch—a snow fox with big ears and bigger personality—until she sees my face.
“What happened?” she asks, eyes narrowing.
I straighten, meet her eyes head-on. At fourteen, she deserves honesty delivered eye-to-eye. “The cabin’s fixed,” I tell her gently. “We can move back. Tonight.”
The hope in her expression collapses like a snow bridge under weight. “But… why? Can’t we stay here?”
I glance toward Jax—a plea hidden behind composure. Help me with this. Please.
He steps forward, swallowing something that looks a lot like regret.
“Home is good,” he tells her, voice steady. “You have your room there. Your things. Your schedule. It’ll feel better getting back into all that.”
She shakes her head, tears springing fast. “It feels better here. It feels like…” She cuts herself off, but the word lingers anyway.
Family…
Jax flinches.
I wrap her into my arms. “Sweetheart—”
“No,” she chokes, voice breaking. “I don’t want to go. I like waking up here. I like breakfast here. I like him.” She looks directly at Jax, betrayal shining. “Why doesn’t he want us to stay?”
The hit is clean and deep—I feel it in his stillness.
Jax crouches so he’s eye level with her, his voice rougher than usual. “It’s not that I don’t want you here. I just… think you deserve your life back. Your routines. Your friends. Your space.”
“And you?” she whispers.
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Something stuck behind his ribs.
I finish for him, throat tight. “We’ll still see him. We’re not disappearing.”
She clings to me, shaking, tears soaking into my sweater. She’s been brave through so much—all the storms, all the uncertainty—but this… this she feels down to the bone.
We pack slowly. Violet folds her clothes with anger in every crease. Every once in a while, she looks up as if waiting for someone—Jax—to say the magic words.
Don’t go.
But he doesn’t.
He stands in the doorway, hands in his pockets, jaw clenched, watching us gather pieces of our lives. There’s a plea buried in his gaze—I see it, I feel it—but fear buries it deeper every time he blinks.
A part of me waits too.
If he would just say ‘stay’—even once—I know I’d unravel.
But he protects us by letting us go.
So I zip the last bag. Violet wipes her cheeks.
And Jax opens the door.
Cold air rushes in, biting at our ankles. Our home is waiting. Our routine is waiting. Our normal is waiting.
But leaving feels an awful lot like breaking something that was finally trying to heal.
I take a slow breath, heart heavy with all the words unspoken.
“We’ll see you soon,” I manage.
Jax nods—one tight, painful movement—and holds the door while we step into the snow.
It crunches beneath our boots. Violet sniffles. The wind picks up.
When I glance back, he’s still standing there in the doorway… watching like a man afraid that if he looks away, we’ll vanish back into his nightmares.
And I walk away thinking the same thing I’ve thought every morning since that storm:
Leaving isn’t the same as wanting to go.