Chapter Thirty-Four
Ava
Morning arrives fragile and shaken.
The storm spent the night clawing at the cabin. But when dawn finally pushes through the frozen dark, the world is quiet again. Too quiet.
Violet sleeps in her room, bundled like a tiny mountain of quilts, cheeks flushed with returning warmth. Her breathing is deep and steady. Alive. Safe.
Because of him.
I ease the door shut and stand there for a moment, letting the relief sink into me one more time—not just that Violet survived, but that someone cared enough to fight the mountain itself for her.
Someone who shouldn’t have had to care at all… But did.
I need to see him.
I step outside. My breath smokes in the air as I walk. Jax’s cabin is a short hike, and I’ve memorized the rhythm of that walk. When his cabin comes into view, my chest tightens.
The truck is parked out front. Doors open. Cabinets emptied. Boxes stacked.
He’s leaving.
Jax hefts a duffel bag into the truck bed, his movements stiff and tired. He’s cleaned up—fresh clothes, hair damp like he tried to wash off the night—but the exhaustion still clings to him. He looks like a man bracing for a blow that he expects will be his own fault.
“Jax.” My voice cracks cold and quiet.
He stops mid-reach. Shoulders tense. He doesn’t turn around.
“I thought you’d still be at the station,” he says carefully. “With Violet.”
“She’s asleep in her own bed.” I swallow. “She’s okay.”
His breath leaves him in something that almost sounds like relief—and almost like a goodbye.
I take a step closer. Snow crunches under my boots, too loud in the hush between us.
“What are you doing?” I ask, though I already know.
He grips the edge of the truck bed, knuckles whitening. “I can’t stay.”
“That reporter is gone,” I say. “He realized he was outnumbered. The town—”
“The town won’t be enough next time.”
He turns then. And God, the look in his eyes—fear, guilt, something bruised and breaking—it hits harder than the wind ever could.
“I’ve been stupid, Ava,” he says. “Letting myself pretend this could last. That I could just act like the world wouldn’t come looking eventually.” He shakes his head. “If he found me, others will too. Bigger names. People who don’t take no for an answer.”
“Jax—”
“I won’t put you or Violet in their crosshairs.” His voice thins, like he’s holding it together by sheer force. “I won’t risk this place. These people. You.”
My heart slams hard and bright. “So, you’re just running again?”
“It’s not running,” he insists, though his jaw tightens like he knows that’s a lie. “It’s facing what I should have faced two years ago. The past doesn’t disappear just because I do.”
“But disappearing saved you,” I say softly.
“And it ruined everything else.” His eyes flick toward the cabin, grief shadowing his features. “I should’ve been here sooner. Better. More prepared. If I hadn’t—”
“No.” I step closer, cutting off the spiral. “You saved her.”
He flinches—like the truth hurts more than blame.
“I don’t deserve that,” he says. “I don’t deserve any of this. Peace. A life. You—”
“But you have it,” I interrupt. “You already have it, whether you think you deserve it or not.”
He looks away, breath fogging the air. “If I stay, I put you in danger.”
The truth is, he’s terrified of being loved again. Because love is what he keeps losing.
I take another step, until I’m close enough to feel the heat of him beneath the cold.
“What about me?” I ask, voice trembling. “Do I get to choose if I want to risk it?”
“Ava—”
“No,” I say, stronger this time. “You don’t get to decide for me again.”
His chest rises in a shuddering breath. His eyes meet mine, searching—like he’s afraid of what he’ll find.
“I choose you,” I whisper.
“I choose you,” I repeat, stepping into his space, my gloved fingers brushing the cold fabric of his jacket. “Not because you’re broken. But because you’re healing. Because I’m healing. And because we’re better at it together.”
His face crumples like the weight he’s carried is finally too heavy to hold alone.
“Ava…”
“You don’t have to leave,” I say, lifting his hand, guiding it to rest against my heart beneath the layers of coat and sweater. “You don’t have to run. Just… stay. Stay here. Stay with us.”
He looks down at our joined hands, snow catching in his lashes, melting on his skin.
“You really want that?” he whispers.
“I’ve never wanted anything more.”
Silence stretches.
Jax’s hand slides up to my cheek, fingers gentle, reverent—like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he touches me too hard.
His forehead drops to mine. “I’m so scared of hurting you.”
“You’ll only hurt me if you leave,” I breathe.
Something unravels in him then. Wild and surrendering all at once.
He kisses me. Deep. Slow. Certain.
It feels like thawing ice, like breath after drowning.
His hand curls in my hair. Mine grip his jacket like I could anchor him here with sheer want. Snow falls around us in soft, swirling confetti, and for the first time in days, the mountain isn’t a threat.
It feels like a witness.
When we finally break for air, his thumb sweeps beneath my eye to catch snowflakes. He lets out a choked laugh, forehead pressed to mine.
“You can’t keep rescuing me,” he says.
“You rescued me first.”
His lips brush mine again, softer, like a vow.
I look at the half-packed truck behind him and then at the man whose entire body is pleading to stay.
“So,” I murmur, “are you done packing?”
He exhales—shaky and relieved—and nods once.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “I’m done.”
We turn toward his cabin together.
And this time…
He walks toward something. Not away.