Chapter Six
Ryder
The morning air bites with the kind of cold that promises serious weather, and I can feel the pressure change in my bones like an old injury.
The sky’s taken on that flat, metallic quality that means business, and the animals sense it too.
Napoleon’s keeping his hens closer to the coop, and even Bonnie and Clyde have abandoned their usual escape attempts in favor of huddling together near their shelter.
The boarding dogs are crated in the barn’s insulated kennel bay this morning, blankets doubled, and water heated.
Laney emerges from the cabin with two steaming mugs of coffee, her hair pulled back in a practical ponytail that somehow makes her look both competent and vulnerable.
She’s traded her usual t-shirt for warmer layers—thermal shirt under a fleece hoodie, work boots that can handle whatever the mountain throws at us.
“Weather service updated the forecast,” she says, handing me a mug. “Expecting eighteen to twenty-four inches, winds up to fifty miles per hour. They’re calling it a once-in-a-decade storm.”
I take a sip of coffee—she’s got my preferences down now, strong and black—and survey the property with fresh eyes. “We should secure anything that can blow around, make sure the animals have solid shelter, and stock up in case we lose power for a few days.”
Her gaze flicks toward mine, a quick acknowledgment of what days could mean—no roads, no signal, no help. Just the two of us, completely cut off from the outside world.
“Better to prepare for the worst and be pleasantly surprised.” I nod toward the barn. “I’ll double-check the heat and ventilation, make sure everything’s running steady, and set up extra bedding just in case.”
Her cheeks flush slightly at the implication, but she nods. “Whatever’s best for the animals.”
We spend the morning moving in perfect sync, like we’ve been doing this together for years instead of days.
She anticipates what I need before I ask for it, passes me tools without prompting, and matches my pace as we secure loose objects and reinforce animal shelters.
There’s something deeply satisfying about working alongside someone who understands the job without needing constant direction.
“Your grandmother built this place to last,” I comment, reinforcing the latches on Bonnie and Clyde’s shelter. The craftsmanship is solid—quality materials, attention to detail, the kind of work that comes from understanding mountain weather.
“She and my grandfather designed it together.” Laney’s voice goes soft with memory as she checks the chickens’ water system.
“She used to tell me stories about the storms they weathered here. How they’d bundle up by the fire, play cards, and tell stories.
Said some of their best conversations happened when they were snowed in with nowhere else to be. ”
Something in her tone makes me glance over. She’s focused on her task, but there’s a wistfulness there that tugs at something deep in my chest. As though she’s imagining what it would be like to have that kind of partnership, that easy intimacy of shared isolation.
“Sounds like they had something special.”
“Forty-three years together.” She straightens, brushing hay dust from her hands. “My grandmother always said the secret was that they genuinely liked each other’s company. That being stuck together felt like a gift instead of a burden.”
The words hang between us, loaded with meaning neither of us acknowledges directly. But I catch the way she glances at me, quick and uncertain, like she’s wondering if we could have that kind of easy companionship if circumstances forced us together.
“My parents were like that too,” I find myself saying.
“My dad was restless by nature—always talking about seeing new places, trying new things. But when storms hit An’Wa, he’d light the fire, pull out his stringed khuur’in, and they’d spend hours just…
talking. Planning imaginary trips they’d take someday, telling stories about places they’d been before I came along. ”
I’m not sure why I’m sharing this. Maybe because Laney’s memories of her grandparents feel safe, uncomplicated. Or maybe because I want her to understand that I know what a real partnership looks like.
“They had imaginary trips?” Her tone is curious.
“Dad never got to travel after the Rift. The Zone became his world. Mom adapted better than he did, understood her lot in life, and tried to make things okay for her kids, even though we were confined to a ten-square-block ghetto. But sometimes I could see Dad watching the horizon like he was wondering what was out there.” I adjust the tension on the rope, keeping my hands busy.
“During storms, though, he seemed… settled. Like being grounded gave him permission to be content where he was.”
“Too bad he never got to travel.”
The comment hits deeper than it should. All Others, until the last year or so, were mostly confined to the Zone, unless we were working.
Laney obviously knows enough about the Others to know our situation.
“We Others are still trying to get all the restrictions lifted, to be able to travel whenever and wherever we want. Dad never got to see any of the changes. He would have killed to get this far from the Zone.”
I pause, remembering his bitter conversations with my mom or his friends about being penned into the Zone. “He died when I was sixteen. Warehouse fire in the Zone—roof collapse.” I keep my voice even, factual. “So, no, he never got to take those trips.”
Laney stops working, her full attention on me now. “Ryder, I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.” The standard response, though some wounds never fully heal. “But watching him and Mom during those storms taught me something about what really matters. It’s not about where you are—it’s about who you’re with.”
The silence that follows feels different from our usual comfortable quiet. Heavier. More aware. When I look up, Laney’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read, but it makes my lungs lock up in a confusing way.
“We should move as much hay as possible into the barn,” I say, needing to break the moment before it becomes something we’re not ready for.
“Right. Practical preparations. And we’ll need to go to town for more food. That pig is already eating me out of house and home.”
She stays closer to me than usual, close enough that her shoulder grazes my arm now and then—light, deliberate, impossible to ignore.
The bales are stacked in a low outbuilding about thirty yards from the barn—close enough for convenience, far enough to be a chore in the wind. Each one weighs maybe forty pounds, nothing I can’t handle alone.
“I’ll take the bottom, you guide from the top,” Laney says as we reach the first stack.
“You don’t need to—”
“Nope! I’m not standing here while you do all the work,” she cuts in, eyes sparking with determination. “I’m stronger than I look.”
Biting back a smile, I say nothing. Orc or not, I know better than to argue with that tone. So I let her grab the other end, though I angle the weight toward myself, carrying most of the load. She doesn’t seem to notice, too focused on matching my shortened stride.
Her determination tugs at something in me. She could have let me shoulder this alone, but she wanted to prove she could keep up. And I’ll let her—because working beside her feels better than doing it myself.
By the fifth bale, we’ve found a rhythm, lifting and carrying in sync. Gusts shove at our backs, cold biting our cheeks, but together it feels less like work and more like… something else. Something I don’t want to name yet. It’s on the seventh bale that everything changes.
We’re maneuvering through the barn door when a sudden gust of wind catches it, slamming it shut just as we’re passing through. I react instinctively, dropping my end of the hay and reaching around Laney to push the door open before it can hit her.
The movement brings me directly behind her, my chest against her back, my arms bracketing her body as I brace against the door. For a heartbeat, we’re locked in place—her soft warmth pressed against me, the scent of her shampoo mixing with hay dust and winter air.
Her grass-green eyes lift to mine, widening—not with fear, but with something sharper, something alive. Her focus flicks to my mouth, quick and involuntary, before she drags it back up.
Her pulse hammers in my ears, quick and fragile, where my orc senses lock onto it. Each shallow breath brushes warm against my skin, and the way she’s watching me—like she might finally stop fighting this…attraction—turns every nerve ending into raw fire.
“Laney,” I say, and her name comes out rough as gravel.
“We should…” she starts, but doesn’t finish the thought.
The wind howls outside, reminding us we’re sheltered here, close and warm, while the storm builds. Her hands come up to rest against my chest, and I’m not sure if she’s planning to push me away or pull me closer.
Time stretches. Her breath stutters. The space between us feels electric, charged with possibility and want and something deeper than either of us is ready to name.
I start to lower my head, drawn by the soft curve of her mouth and the way she’s looking at me like I’m the answer to a question she’s been afraid to ask.
Then reality crashes back.
“I… we should finish moving these before the storm gets worse,” she says, her voice strained.
“Laney—”
“Please.” The word comes out sharp, almost desperate. “Let’s just… focus on the work.”
I want to push, to ask what just happened and why she’s running from something that felt so right. But the look in her eyes stops me. Whatever she’s afraid of, pressuring her isn’t going to help.
“Of course,” I say instead, stepping back to give her space. “Animals come first.”