Chapter 15
Fifteen
BAILEY
The thing about wolves’ howls is that they sound a lot like loneliness. Or maybe that’s just me, projecting again. Sebastian says I do that—find meaning in things that are just things. But sitting here in the dark, listening to that mournful sound, I can’t help but think the wolves get it.
I nudge another log into the fireplace with my good foot, careful not to disturb the cast-iron kettle balanced on the grate.
The water inside bubbles, steam rising in ghostly tendrils.
Without electricity, this ancient fireplace is our only source of heat and light—and the only way to make tea that doesn’t taste like snow.
Another howl pierces the night. I flinch. Hot tea splashes over my fingers, burning my skin. The liquid smells sharp and piney, like Christmas gone feral.
“They can’t get in the cabin.” Sebastian’s voice is low, steady.
He shifts closer on the rough wooden bench, his thigh now pressing against mine. The contact sends little sparks of awareness through my body, which seems inappropriate given our near-death experience earlier.
I should move away. Or make a joke. Or ramble about wolf pack dynamics, which I know a lot about, thanks to a middle school hyper-fixation phase. Instead, I sit frozen, afraid any movement might break whatever this is.
The silence stretches. My fingers tap against the tin cup, creating tiny ripples in the tea. “How’s the arm?”
He shrugs. “It’s nothing. Barely broke skin.”
The bandage peeks out from his torn shirt, a small red spot blooming through white gauze where the wolf’s teeth grazed him.
My stomach twists. He wouldn’t let me look at it earlier, just wrapped it himself while I collected scattered firewood, all precise movements and clipped responses, back to Mr. Perfect mode.
I bite my lip, fighting the urge to reach over and check.
“You ever feel like the wolves have the right idea?” My fingers trace patterns in the condensation on my cup. “Pack animals. Always together. Must be nice.”
Sebastian shifts beside me, but I keep my eyes on the tea.
“Sometimes,” I continue, because apparently we’re doing this, “I land somewhere, and there’s this moment when I turn on my phone.
..and there’s nothing. Sometimes there are a couple of messages from my friends—Cora sharing pics of her latest event, Jill with party questions, Riley sending memes at 3 AM.
And I love them, I do. They’re my people.
But they have their own lives, you know?
Their own priorities and schedules, and relationships. ”
I tap the rim of my cup, watching ripples spread across the surface. “And I get it. I’m not resentful or anything. It’s just...”
The words seem too honest, too raw. But the wolves howl outside, and something about this cabin, this night, this man sitting beside me makes the truth spill out.
“Sometimes I wish I were someone’s priority.
Just once. Someone who’d clear their schedule when I land, who’d check in not because they remembered I exist, but because they couldn’t stop thinking about me.
Someone who wouldn’t be too busy.” My throat tightens.
“And then I feel selfish for even wanting that.”
The kettle whistles from the fireplace. I hobble over, grateful for the excuse to escape whatever’s happening between us. My ankle protests with each step, but it’s better than sitting there with him that close.
I wrap a cloth around the kettle’s handle and refill our cups, the steam rising between us like a barrier.
The pine needle tea was Sebastian’s idea—apparently, his survival training includes making beverages from forest findings.
It tastes like Christmas trees and dirt, but it’s hot, and right now, the heat feels like a miracle.
“This tea is terrible,” I say, passing him a fresh cup. “But I guess it beats freezing to death.”
His fingers brush mine during the handoff. The contact sends a jolt straight to my chest.
His hand covers mine on the tin cup. I freeze. His skin is soft, warm against my callused fingers. Too warm. Too nice. Too much like something I can’t have.
“You’re honest.” His voice comes out soft. “Better than perfectly scripted messages that mean nothing.”
His hand remains on mine, and I can’t stop staring at where our fingers meet.
A wolf howls again, closer this time. The sound echoes through my chest, lonely and wild, making my eyes burn. I blink hard, focusing on the steam rising from my cup, pretending I didn’t admit how pathetically alone I am to a man who schedules his social obligations months in advance.
“You know what’s worse than being alone? Being alone in a crowd. Like at those fancy parties where everyone’s making small talk and I’m just...too much.”
I swallow hard, staring into my tea like it holds answers. Like if I focus hard enough on the swirling liquid, I can ignore the tears threatening to spill. Stupid wolves. Stupid near-death experience making me emotional. Stupid everything.
“Too much is better than too perfect.” He shifts, and the firelight catches his profile, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw. Something in his voice makes my chest tight. “At least you’re real. Not like my life.”
I turn to him, searching his face for any sign of mockery or pity. His eyes hold nothing but raw honesty, stealing my breath.
“I schedule everything,” he confesses, his thumb tracing circles on my hand. “Every minute. Every interaction. Trying to be perfect.” His voice catches. “And look where that got me.”
My heart skips at his words. “Got you here?” I try to keep my voice light. “Stuck in a cabin after surviving a plane crash with the most annoying pilot ever?”
His hand tightens on mine. “No.” The word comes out rough. “It got me here, sitting next to someone who threw her prized possession at wolves to save my life, while my supposed perfect match is still in bed with another man.”
The bitterness in his voice makes me flinch. His perfect composure shatters. He jumps up from the bench, the sudden movement sending the tin cup rattling.
“Mr. Perfect.” He spits the words. “That’s what you called me, right? At the airport?” His arms swing wide, knocking into a gas lantern. It wobbles, nearly falling. “Well, guess what? Not so perfect after all.”
I press back against the wall, watching him pace. Three steps left, turn, three steps right. His shoulders bunch under his shirt, movements sharp and jerky. Nothing like his usual calculated grace.
“Want to know what happened?” He runs his hands through his hair. “I was too blind to see it. Too focused on my perfect plans to notice anything else.” A harsh laugh escapes him. “Walked right in on them. In bed. Together.”
Wait. What? My brain stutters to a halt, replaying his words. Another man. Bed. His girlfriend cheated on him. The perfect, sculpted-by-gods Sebastian Lockhart got cheated on.
Rage blooms, hot and unexpected, in my chest. Who would cheat on him? What kind of idiot would throw away someone who plans Northern Lights proposals and fights off wolves and looks like...well, like him?
My chest aches watching him unravel.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, and want to kick myself. Of all the things I could have said—all the words tumbling around in my brain—I pick the most useless ones. Empty words that mean nothing. I’m not sorry.
But his pacing stops. For a second. His shoulders drop a fraction.
“Don’t.” His voice cracks on the word. “Don’t be sorry. Don’t be nice. I can’t...” He swallows hard. “I can’t handle nice right now.”
My fingers twist in my lap, itching to reach out, to fix something that can’t be fixed. To make it better, even though I know I can’t.
“Okay then,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “I’m not sorry. I think she’s an idiot. And I hope she gets bedbugs.”
He doesn’t smile. The muscles in his jaw work beneath his skin.
?And fleas. And head lice. And those microscopic face mites that live in your eyelashes and have sex at night.
" I’m on a roll now, the words tumbling out faster.
“I hope she gets a paper cut between her fingers where it really hurts. I hope her socks are always slightly damp. I hope every public toilet she uses for the rest of her life has run out of paper.”
His lips twitch. Encouraged, I continue.
“I hope she steps on a Lego every night for the next decade. I hope her phone charger only works at a specific angle that requires a structural engineering degree to figure out. I hope she gets those weird hiccups that make your butthole clench.”
A snort. Not quite a laugh, but progress.
“I hope every time she gets comfortable in bed, she remembers she forgot to brush her teeth. I hope she eternally feels like she’s about to sneeze, but never does. I hope all her autocorrects are inappropriate when she’s texting her boss. I hope—”
“Bailey.” A genuine smile now, small but there, breaking through the pain like sunrise after a storm.
“What? I’m just getting started. I’ve got fifty more curses involving ingrown toenails and mysterious shopping cart wheels.”
“God, I’m so stupid.” He kicks the second bench. It scrapes across the floor, wood screaming against wood. “All those late meetings, all those work trips. I actually believed her.”
“You’re not stupid for trusting someone you loved.” My voice comes out softer than usual, all the sarcasm stripped away. “Your heart was in the right place. That’s not stupidity—that’s being human.”
His breathing comes fast and shallow, chest rising and falling in rapid succession. Like he’s running out of air. Like he’s drowning in his own anger.
“You know what’s really pathetic?” He stops pacing, staring at the wall, fists clenched at his sides.
“I had the whole thing planned down to the minute. The proposal speech, the ring placement, even calculated the exact moment the Northern Lights might appear.” His fist connects with the wall.
The cabin seems to shudder. “So much for perfect.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. “How long were you together?”