Chapter 12
SOREN
The morning light came in soft and gold, spilling across the cabin floor like a blessing Soren didn’t feel she’d earned.
The stove was still warm from the fire she’d banked overnight, and the smell of pine smoke mixed with coffee in the air.
Outside, the world was wrapped in white — smooth, unbroken snow blanketing the trees and the frozen lake below.
It was quiet enough to hear her own heartbeat.
Christmas morning.
She filled her mug, then hesitated — reaching, as she always did, for the second one. The plain white mug sat in its usual spot beside the kettle. Nia’s mug. She’d tried putting it away once, but it had felt wrong, like erasing proof of something she wasn’t ready to forget.
Steam rose from the coffee as she poured it, the scent sharp and comforting. She took both mugs to the table out of habit, setting one across from her own, as if Nia might come shuffling out of the bedroom, hair mussed, wearing one of Soren’s shirts that would be far too big on her.
Except the chair stayed empty.
Soren sat, elbows on the table, staring at the rising steam. The morning sun hit the edge of the mug and turned it to gold. She smiled faintly, a soft, humorless thing.
“Merry Christmas, Doc,” she said quietly.
The sound of her own voice startled her. She wasn’t used to talking out loud when there was no one to answer.
The radio on the counter was tuned to the local station — a bit of static, a bit of music.
Someone cheerful was wishing everyone a safe and blessed holiday, followed by Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.
Soren let it play while she sipped her coffee, the words soft as snow and somehow unbearable.
She should’ve been used to mornings like this — empty ones.
But this emptiness was different.
The storm had come and gone, and with it, something inside her had shifted.
She’d thought she’d learned to live with loss — her mom, her quiet life, all the what-ifs that came with it.
But this… losing Nia… it wasn’t the kind of ache you got over by working harder or drinking stronger coffee. It sat in her bones, deep and patient.
She finished her mug and stood, restless, pulling on her boots and jacket.
The cold hit her face the moment she opened the door, sharp and honest. She stepped onto the porch, the boards creaking under her weight, and looked out across the lake.
The ice shimmered under the morning light, a mirror for a sky so blue it almost hurt.
Everywhere else, Christmas would be laughter and noise — kids with presents, families around tables, fires crackling, dogs at people’s feet. Up here, it was just her and the mountain.
She didn’t mind solitude. She never had. But today, it pressed in from all sides, a weight she couldn’t quite shake.
She picked up the axe from the porch rail and walked to the woodpile, needing something to do, something to burn off the ache. The first swing cut clean through the log. The second wasn’t as neat. By the third, her arms were trembling, not from effort but from everything she couldn’t say.
“Damn it,” she muttered, setting the axe down and leaning on the handle, breath clouding in front of her.
She thought of Nia’s last email — polite, distant, like they were strangers again. Glad the lodge is warm again. Stay well, Soren.
Soren had read it once, twice, then deleted it before she could reply. What was there to say?
You made a place I didn’t know I needed.
You ruined me for silence.
You made the cold feel warm.
She tipped her head back, eyes on the sky. A hawk circled high above, the only thing moving in all that empty blue.
“Guess that’s it, huh?” she said softly. “Storm’s over.”
The words came out on a breath, carried away by the cold.
After a moment, she smiled again — smaller this time, but real. Not because she felt better, but because she knew she’d survive this too. She always did.
She gathered the chopped wood, stacking it neatly, one log after another, until her hands stopped shaking. Then she went back inside, poured another cup of coffee, and sat at the table again.
The white mug waited across from her. She turned it slightly so the crack in the glaze caught the light, then reached out and ran her thumb along it.
“Looks like it’s just us this year,” she murmured.
The radio played another carol, slow and sad, and outside the snow began to fall again — light, soft, and endless.
The snow had been falling for an hour by the time Soren noticed.
Big, lazy flakes drifted past the window, settling over the porch she’d just cleared. She watched them for a while, one hand wrapped around her mug, the other tracing absent circles in the condensation on the table.
The clock above the stove ticked toward noon. Christmas morning was slipping into afternoon, and the cabin smelled of coffee, pine, and a roast she hadn’t really wanted to cook but had thrown in the oven anyway because doing nothing felt worse.
She took a slow sip and tried not to think. Not about the empty chair across from her, not about the soft sound of laughter that sometimes echoed in her head when the house was too quiet.
The knock startled her.
A sharp rap, sudden against the hush of falling snow. She froze, setting her mug down carefully. Nobody came out this far unless they meant to — her nearest neighbour was a half mile away.
Soren crossed to the door, pulse picking up as another knock came, gentler this time.
She pulled it open.
And forgot how to breathe.
Nia stood on her porch, half-covered in snow, cheeks flushed from the cold.
She looked more beautiful than ever. Her dark hair was loose, damp at the ends where it brushed the collar of her coat.
A small duffel hung from her shoulder. Behind her, the mountain looked like something out of a postcard — white, still, endless.
For a second, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the snow sliding off the eaves and the faint whistle of the wind.
Then Soren found her voice, rough and quiet. “You got lost again, Doc?”
Nia’s lips curved, uncertain but real. “Maybe I was trying to.”
Soren blinked, gripping the edge of the door. “You… you shouldn’t be here. The roads—”
“Clear,” Nia said softly. “I checked three times. I rented a car. I… needed to come.”
Soren took her in, heartbeat hammering. The elegant posture, the controlled calm, all still there — but her eyes told the truth. They were bright and tired and full of something that looked a lot like fear.
Soren stepped back without thinking. “Get in here before you freeze.”
Nia hesitated only a second before stepping inside. The warmth hit her immediately, and she shivered, brushing melting snow from her coat. Soren took it from her, hanging it by the stove, hands moving automatically even as her mind caught up to the fact that Nia — Nia — was here.
In her cabin.
At Christmas.
Soren turned back to find her standing awkwardly near the table, eyes darting between the fire and the two mugs. She gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “You kept it.”
Soren glanced at the mug and shrugged. “Didn’t seem right to throw it out.”
“Doc,” she said softly, “you sure you’re not just here for the coffee?”
Nia’s lips parted — the faintest ghost of a smile. “Maybe a little.” She took a step closer. “Mostly for you.”
That was all it took.
Soren closed the distance, her hands coming up to cup Nia’s face, her thumbs brushing the cold from her cheeks. Nia’s eyes fluttered shut at the touch, a soft sound catching in her throat.
When Soren kissed her, it wasn’t like before — not hurried or desperate or stolen from the dark. It was slow and sure and full of everything they hadn’t said.
Nia melted into her, fingers fisting in the front of Soren’s shirt. The kiss deepened, turned breathless, then gentled again until their foreheads rested together, both smiling through uneven breaths.
“I wasn’t sure you’d want me to come,” Nia whispered.
Soren smiled faintly. “You must not know me that well yet, Doc. I was about five minutes away from driving down to Phoenix Ridge to find you myself.”
That made Nia laugh — a small, shaky sound that broke whatever was left of Soren’s restraint. She pulled her close again, holding her tight, just breathing her in.
Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, the world finally felt warm again.
By the time the snow stopped, the cabin smelled like cinnamon and pine.
The fire roared in the hearth, throwing soft orange light over the room. Nia had changed into one of Soren’s flannels—sleeves rolled, collar a little too big—and it undid Soren every time she looked at her.
They’d cooked together—if you could call it that. Pancakes that stuck to the pan, scrambled eggs that turned out half-perfect, half-charred. Nia had laughed through it all, warm and unguarded, hair falling in her face while she insisted on making coffee “properly this time.”
Soren had watched her, completely undone by the sight of this woman—this impossibly put-together surgeon—barefoot in her cabin kitchen, laughing like she hadn’t in years.
Now they sat at the small table, empty plates between them, candles burning low. Outside, the lake shimmered beneath a full moon.
Nia reached across the table, brushing a crumb off Soren’s thumb. “You’re a terrible cook,” she teased, voice soft with affection.
Soren grinned. “And yet you cleaned your plate.”
“I was being polite.”
“Sure you were, Doc.”
They smiled at each other across the candlelight, the kind of smile that carried more truth than words ever could.
After a moment, Soren leaned back in her chair. “You know, when you left, I tried to convince myself it didn’t matter. That it was just the storm, just bad timing and good chemistry.”
Nia’s gaze dropped to the table, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug. “And?”
“And I was full of it.”
Nia looked up, green eyes shining.
Soren’s voice softened. “You were all I thought about. Every morning, I poured two cups of coffee like an idiot. You don’t forget someone who looks at you like you’re worth staying for.”
Nia’s throat worked as she swallowed. “I wanted to stay.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Because I was scared.” Nia’s words came out small but certain. “Scared that if I stayed, I’d never go back to who I was. That I’d lose control. And I’ve spent my whole life trying to hold it together.”
Soren reached across the table and took her hand. “Maybe it’s time to let go.”
Nia laughed softly, shaky and beautiful. “You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not,” Soren said. “But it’s better than being without each someone who is meant for you.”
For a long moment, they just looked at each other—the flicker of the fire reflecting in their eyes, the soft hum of the storm outside. Then Nia stood, circled the table, and stopped in front of Soren’s chair.
Soren tilted her head up, and Nia cupped her face in both hands. “I don’t know what comes next,” Nia whispered. “But I know I want this. You. Us.”
Soren’s pulse stuttered. “You sure, Doc?”
Nia smiled, tears catching in her lashes. “I love you, Soren Stevenson. I think I’ve loved you since the night you handed me a drink and called me out on pretending to be fine.”
Soren’s breath hitched, something breaking open deep inside her. “You don’t have to say that just because it’s Christmas.”
“I’m saying it because it’s true.”
Soren stood then, pulling Nia into her arms. The kiss that followed was different than all the ones before—slow, steady, full of everything that had built between them. When they finally broke apart, Soren pressed her forehead to Nia’s, voice thick.
“I love you too, Doc. More than I probably should.”
Nia smiled through her tears. “Good. I’d hate to be the only fool here.”
They ended up on the couch by the fire, tangled together under a blanket, Nia’s head resting against Soren’s chest. The flames danced low, and outside the window, the snow began to fall again—soft, silent, endless.
Soren brushed her thumb along Nia’s hand and whispered, “You’re staying, right?”
“For now,” Nia murmured, half-asleep already. “And maybe a little longer than that.”
Soren smiled, kissed the top of her head, and watched the snow until it blurred into light.
For the first time in a long time, the silence didn’t feel empty.
It felt like home.
And when the morning came, there would be two mugs on the table—and two people who finally knew what it meant to stay.