3. Mara #2
I let out a small breath, watching the snow blur past the window. "Not much, honestly. The same quiet streets, the same gossip. I'm either at the café or the lodge most days, so I don't see much of what's happening outside those walls."
He hums in acknowledgment. "Nothing wrong with that. Stability's underrated."
"Spoken like a lawyer," I tease lightly.
"Guilty," he says, the corner of his mouth twitching.
I glance at him, catching the subtle humor behind his composure. His eyes, that deep forest green, stay on the road, scanning it like second nature.
"So how's Denver?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
"Busy. Crowded. I've been in court more days than not lately. A few big cases came through, back to back. I needed a break before I burned out completely."
"You're not really the type to take breaks," I say before I can stop myself.
His eyes flick toward me, curious. "You remember that?"
"I remember everything," I admit, then quickly look away. "You were always the one who stayed up late studying while the rest of us were sneaking out."
He chuckles softly, that sound rolling low from his chest. "Yeah, that sounds about right."
The truck takes a slow turn onto the main road, the snow heavier here. Tire tracks carve faint paths through the slush. I catch a glimpse of the frozen creek glinting between the trees, pale blue under the morning light.
Then, suddenly, the back tires slip.
The world tilts just slightly—enough that my stomach lurches. The truck fishtails before Daniel reacts, steady and sure, turning the wheel smoothly into the slide. My hand shoots out instinctively, catching his arm.
He steadies the truck within seconds, the motion fluid. But he doesn't move his arm away. Instead, his other hand—the one not on the wheel—reaches over, covering mine where it grips his sleeve.
"Hey," he says quietly, voice even and grounding. "You're okay. I've got you."
The words are simple, but they land hard. My chest tightens, heat warming through me that has nothing to do with fear.
I realize I'm still clutching him, my pulse quick and uneven. Slowly, I ease my grip and sit back, embarrassed. "Sorry. I just… I really hate driving in the snow."
His expression softens, the tension in his shoulders fading. "I get it," he says. "It's a pain to trust the road when you can't see half of it."
"Yeah." I stare out the window, pretending to focus on the snowbanks. "Something like that."
The rest of the drive is quieter, filled with the steady hum of tires and the faint murmur of music. The main street unfolds ahead of us: the old clock tower, the narrow sidewalks lined with lampposts wearing frost like lace.
When he parks outside Falling Pines Bookstore, I reach for the handle too quickly. My boots hit a patch of slick ice, and I stumble forward with a small gasp.
Strong hands catch me before I can fall, one gripping my arm, the other around my waist. The world seems to slow for a heartbeat, the air between us sharp with cold and something else entirely.
"Careful," he murmurs.
I look up, and our eyes lock. The moment stretches, the snow falling soundlessly around us, and my breath catches. He's so close I can see the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his pupils darken just slightly.
"I—sorry," I say quickly, stepping back once I find my footing. "Graceful as always."
He smiles faintly, a flicker of warmth passing through his usual reserve. "Come on," he says softly. "Let's get inside before we freeze."
The bell above the door chimes as we enter. Falling Pines smells like cinnamon, dust, and old paper, that comforting perfume of forgotten pages and stories waiting to be found. Nora Meyers, the owner, is behind the counter, wrapped in her knitted shawl, spectacles perched low on her nose.
"Well, if it isn't Mara and Daniel," she says brightly. "You two look like you just stepped out of a snow globe."
Daniel brushes the snow from his coat. "Morning, Nora. Mom said you set aside some maps for us?"
"Sure did. Box is by the back shelves. Go on and grab them."
He nods and heads toward the back while I stand by the counter, pretending to browse the postcards. My hands tremble slightly, though I tell myself it's from the cold. But as I wait, a memory I've tried so hard to bury surfaces—uninvited, vivid, aching.
It was after the funeral. The house had been so quiet that night I could hear the ticking of the old clock in the kitchen. The air was heavy with flowers and grief. I'd been sitting on my bed, still in my pajamas, staring at nothing.
Then there'd been a knock.
I hadn't expected anyone, so I was very surprised when the door opened, and there he was—Daniel. Nineteen then, older than me by a few years but already wearing that calm that made everyone trust him. He'd come in holding a mug of tea.
"I thought you might need something warm," he'd said.
I remember being too stunned to answer. I'd just nodded.
He'd sat on the edge of my bed, his hand brushing mine as he passed me the cup. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," I'd lied, the words cracking like ice.
He hadn't argued. He'd just opened his arms, and when I hesitated, he'd said quietly, "It's all right. I've got you."
Something inside me had broken then. I'd collapsed against him, sobbing into his shirt until I couldn't breathe. He'd held me through all of it—silent and somehow soothing—until exhaustion pulled me under.
When I woke up the next morning, he was gone.
We never spoke about it. Not once. But now, hearing those same words in his voice—I've got you—pulls the memory up like a ghost from deep water.
He reappears then, box in his arms. "Got them," he says, setting it gently on the counter. His breath curls faintly in the air.
Nora waves a hand. "Before you two rush back into the storm, have some coffee. You need to thaw out a bit first."
Daniel glances at me, and I nod because I don't trust my voice.
We sit at the small table by the window, mugs steaming between us. Nora hums as she works, leaving us in our little bubble of warmth and awkward silence.
I watch him when he's not looking—the way his fingers curl around the cup, the way his throat works when he swallows. Everything about him seems controlled, deliberate, yet there's an ease to him now that wasn't there years ago.
He catches me looking once, and I pretend to focus on my coffee, cheeks burning.
The drive back feels longer somehow, though it isn't. My thoughts are a mess of memory and confusion, circling one truth I can't shake: I might still have a crush on Daniel Hartwell.
Which is ridiculous. Fucked up, even. He's never shown any interest in me—not then, not now. And besides, there's still a pack out there looking for me.
By the time we pull into the café's lot, I've convinced myself to push it all back down.
Inside, the world feels alive again—laughter, cocoa, the smell of cookies baking. Tess, Leo, Gray, and Henry are gathered around the counter, while Margaret stands at the stove, humming.
"Ah, there they are," she says, turning with a smile. "You found the maps?"
"Right here," Daniel says, lifting the box.
"Perfect timing. We'll set them out this afternoon." She wipes her hands on a towel. "Thank you both for braving the cold."
I smile, taking off my coat. "It was no trouble."
Daniel nods once. "I'll drop these off at the lodge," he says, his voice even. "Be right back."
He turns to leave, and for a heartbeat, I can still feel the echo of his hand around my waist.
And no matter how hard I try, I can't shake the thought that maybe I never stopped falling for him.