Chapter 4
SOREN
The first thing Soren noticed when she woke was the quiet.
That heavy, muffled kind of quiet that only came after a serious snowstorm—the whole mountain holding its breath.
She lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling beams of her cabin.
The air was cold enough that she could see a faint puff of breath when she exhaled.
Usually she liked mornings like this: coffee brewing, the world blanketed and still, no one needing her to fix anything yet.
But this morning, everything in her chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with the weather.
Her bed smelled like pine soap and sawdust and her.
Not Nia—Nia had smelled like clean linen and something expensive and floral—but herself. The difference made the room feel emptier.
Soren groaned and rolled onto her back, draping an arm over her eyes.
She hadn’t meant to leave. Not really. But sometime after the storm had quieted and Nia had fallen asleep—soft breath against her shoulder, hand curled in the sheets—Soren had panicked.
The kind of panic that didn’t come from fear of the person next to you, but from the rare, dangerous sense that it mattered.
She’d told herself it was better this way. A one-night thing. Clean, simple.
Only it didn’t feel clean or simple now.
The images kept replaying: Nia’s breath catching under her hands, that flash of surrender in her eyes, the way her voice had cracked on a half-whispered please. Soren squeezed her eyes shut, a helpless smile tugging at her mouth.
“Damn, Doc,” she muttered into the empty cabin. “What the hell did you do to me?”
Outside, a gust of wind rattled the shutters. Soren pushed the blanket back and swung her legs over the side of the bed, bare feet finding the cold wood floor. She tugged on sweatpants and a flannel, padding over to the window.
The view took her breath for a different reason.
The snow hadn’t stopped—it had buried everything. The pine trees sagged under white weight, the road down the ridge was invisible, her truck a smooth, rounded mound with only the mirror peeking out like a periscope.
“Looks like we’re not going anywhere,” she muttered.
Coffee came first. She scooped grounds into the old percolator and waited for the hiss and gurgle to fill the silence. Her thoughts kept drifting back to Nia: how composed she’d been when they met, all edges and restraint—and how quickly she’d burned through every wall once she let go.
Soren smiled faintly, leaning her hip against the counter. She hadn’t expected to care if she ever saw her again. She was good at letting things go—jobs, storms, people passing through town. But Nia had left an ache in her chest that no amount of casual could explain away.
She tried to picture Nia now, in that tidy hotel room—probably awake already, hair brushed back into order, pretending last night hadn’t happened. Pretending Soren hadn’t fucked her perfection away.
The thought stung.
She carried her mug to the window again and pressed her palm to the cold glass. Somewhere beyond the trees, Hawthorne Lake’s lights would still be buried under the storm. The hospital might even be closed, the lodge half-snowed in.
Which meant Nia was still here. There was no way she would be getting to the airport.
Soren’s reflection in the glass met her gaze—hair a mess, circles under her eyes, but a spark there she hadn’t seen in a long time.
“Yeah,” she murmured to herself, a rueful grin spreading. “You’re in trouble, Stevenson.”
Outside, the snow kept falling. The mountain was quiet, but her mind wasn’t. All she could think about was Nia’s voice, low and unguarded, whispering her name like a secret she hadn’t meant to give away.
Her phone buzzed against the counter, shattering the quiet.
Soren blinked, set her mug down, and picked it up. The screen flashed Hawthorne Lodge.
“Stevenson Repairs,” she answered, voice still rough with sleep.
“Morning, Soren,” came the reception girl, Michelle’s familiar drawl. “Sorry to bother you early, but the lodge took a hit in the storm. Power’s patchy, the boiler’s acting up, and the owner’s panicking. You free?”
Soren’s pulse jumped before her common sense could catch up.
The lodge. Nia’s lodge.
She cleared her throat, trying to sound casual. “Yeah, I can be there in twenty. Roads passable?”
“Barely. Bring chains. And coffee if you’ve got extra.”
“On it.”
When the call ended, Soren stared at the phone for a beat, the faintest grin spreading across her face.
“Well,” she murmured, setting her mug aside, “guess fate’s on my side for once.”
She pulled on her boots and jacket, grabbed her toolbox from beside the door, and stepped out into the snow. The cold bit at her cheeks, the kind of cold that meant life, not retreat. For the first time since she’d opened her eyes that morning, her chest felt lighter.
She was going to see Nia again.
And this time, she promised herself, she wouldn’t run.
By the time Soren’s truck crunched into the parking lot of the Hawthorne Lodge, the world had turned into a watercolor of white and gray.
The tires hissed over packed snow, the wipers clicking against sleet that refused to quit.
The lodge stood half-buried, icicles hanging like teeth from the roofline.
She killed the engine, grabbed her toolbox, and stomped her boots free of snow before heading inside.
The lobby smelled faintly of burnt coffee and cold metal—a sign that the heating system was doing its best but losing. The owner, Mr. Ellis, met her near the fireplace, red-nosed and relieved.
“Morning, Stevenson! You’re a miracle. Pipes froze again in the east wing, and the boiler’s acting up.”
Soren set the box down, flexing her fingers. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
He led her toward the back corridor, explaining in bursts, words puffing white in the chilly air. The storm had knocked the power grid all night. Temporary generators kept the lights on, but the hot water system was struggling.
They rounded the corner—and Dr. Nia South stood there, arms crossed, every line of her body drawn tight as a scalpel.
She wore a sleek black coat, dark hair pulled back into a severe twist, green eyes sharp and unreadable. The sight of her hit Soren like stepping into cold water—shock first, ache after.
“Morning, Doc,” she said, tone light, cautious.
Nia’s gaze flicked over her like she was one of the pipes that needed inspecting. “I didn’t realize you were the lodge’s handyman.”
Soren smiled. “Among other things.”
“Convenient,” Nia murmured, clearly unimpressed. “Maybe you can fix the roads while you’re at it.”
Soren set the toolbox down slowly, resisting the urge to grin. There it was again—that crisp authority, the frost in every word. It should’ve annoyed her. Instead it made her want to melt it.
“Roads aren’t my department,” Soren said mildly, crouching beside the boiler panel. “But I can try to make it less miserable in here.”
Nia folded her arms tighter. “That would be appreciated.”
Her tone suggested the opposite. The air between them felt thick enough to cut.
Soren worked in silence for a minute, the clang of metal tools and hiss of steam filling the gap. Every so often she could feel Nia’s gaze on her, cool and assessing, like she was trying to erase the memory of how she’d looked the night before—unbuttoned, flushed, unguarded.
“Long night?” Soren asked finally, just to hear her voice.
Nia’s response was smooth but brittle. “I didn’t sleep much. I was hoping to catch the first flight out this morning.”
Soren winced sympathetically, tightening a valve. “Roads are bad. You might be waiting a while.”
“I’ve already called the airport,” Nia said. “There’s a delay, but I intend to get there as soon as possible.”
She sounded like a woman willing the universe into obedience.
Soren wiped her hands on a rag and stood, meeting her gaze squarely. “I can drive you. The truck can handle it.”
Nia blinked. “That’s not necessary.”
“I didn’t say it was,” Soren replied, smiling faintly. “But if you want out, I’ll get you out.”
Before Nia could answer, the lobby phone rang. Mr. Ellis hurried over, picked up, listened for a long moment, and groaned.
“Well,” he said, hanging up. “That was the airport. All flights are cancelled until further notice. Runway’s iced over. They’re saying at least forty-eight hours, maybe more with the next front coming in.”
The silence that followed was almost comical.
Nia exhaled through her nose. “Perfect.”
Soren bit back a laugh. “Guess you’re stuck with us.”
Nia’s glare could’ve frozen water. “Guess I am.”
Mr. Ellis rubbed his hands. “Doctor, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need. We’ll get the heat stabilized soon.”
“Wonderful,” Nia said tightly, turning back toward the stairs. “I’ll be in my room. Please let me know when the roads are clear.”
She walked away, heels clicking sharply against the tile, every inch of her posture controlled.
Soren watched her go, an amused sigh escaping before she turned back to the boiler.
“She’s something, huh?” Ellis said quietly.
“Yeah,” Soren murmured, grabbing her wrench again. “Something dangerous.”
As she tightened the last pipe, she caught her reflection in the metal—smiling without meaning to.
Snow fell harder outside, sealing the mountain in, but the warmth building in her chest refused to fade.
One way or another, she was going to see Nia again before this storm was over.