4. Bennett
BENNETT
T he snow is a wall of white, but it’s nothing compared to the storm inside my head.
I drive the shovel into the drift on the porch with enough force to jar my titanium-reinforced shoulder, welcoming the dull ache.
It’s better than the heat still simmering in my blood from that near-miss in the cabin.
I almost kissed her. God, I almost took her right there against the bookshelf, surrounded by the dried flowers she’s using to brighten my life.
I growl into the wind, the sound lost in the roar of the gale.
I shouldn’t want her like this. I don't know her middle name.
I don't know her favorite color or what makes her laugh when she isn't terrified for her life. The cold, tactical part of my mind that kept me alive in the desert tells me I’m being a fool. It tells me she’s a civilian, a temporary guest, a little bird who will fly away the second the sun comes out.
But my heart, that scarred and rusted organ I thought was dead, knows the truth. I knew it the moment I pulled her from that wreck. I knew it when her soft curves pressed against my chest and the world finally made sense.
I’ve never been an impulsive man. I’m a strategist. I plan.
I calculate. But looking at Acacia makes me want to throw the playbook into the fire.
I want to put a ring on her finger. I want to see her belly swollen with my child.
I want to mark every inch of that cream-colored skin so the whole world knows she belongs to the mountain… She belongs to me .
"You’re losing your goddamn mind, Bennett," I mutter, shoving a massive pile of powder over the railing.
My sat phone chirps in my pocket, the sharp sound cutting through my spiral.
I pull it out, seeing the encrypted ID. It’s Ghost. He’s a former Marine living even higher up on the mountain than me, a man who moved into the wilderness for the same reasons I did.
We don't talk about the past. We don't talk about the names we used to carry.
"Yeah," I grunt into the receiver.
"Storm’s a bitch," Ghost’s voice crackles, sounding like sandpaper on stone. "You still upright?"
"Still breathing. Shoveling the porch now."
"Food? Fuel?"
"Enough for a month," I say, my eyes drifting toward the cabin window. "I’m not alone, Ghost. Pulled a woman out of a crash at the ravine last night."
There’s a long silence on the other end. Men like us don't have friends. We have survivors we check in on so we don't find a corpse when the thaw comes. But I can practically hear Ghost’s eyebrows hitting his hairline.
"A woman," Ghost finally repeats. "Trouble?"
"No," I say, my voice dropping an octave. "Not trouble. Something else."
"Keep your head on a swivel, Bennett. Women like that... they change the air."
"I know."
"Stay warm. Out."
The line goes dead. Ghost is right; she’s changed the air.
I’ve spent years wanting nothing but silence and solitude, but now, the thought of being alone in that cabin again feels like a death sentence.
I don’t want a check-in every few months.
I want forever. I want her waking up in my bed every morning until my heart finally stops beating.
I give up on the shoveling. The snow is winning anyway, and I can't stand to be away from her for another second.
I stomp into the mudroom, kicking off my boots and shedding the heavy, ice-crusted coat. When I step into the main room, I stop dead in my tracks.
Acacia is curled up on the couch, wrapped in one of my old wool blankets.
The orange glow of the fire is dancing across her face, highlighting the adorable roundness of her cheeks and the soft slope of her nose.
She looks like a painting. A work of art.
Almost too beautiful to try to replicate on canvas.
She looks like peace and safety and salvation.
I look down at my hands - scarred, calloused, and rough. They are hands made for breaking things, for war, for survival. They have no business touching someone so precious, so soft.
Then she turns. Her eyes light up when she sees me, and she offers a smile that makes the titanium in my body feel like it’s melting. She pats the cushion next to her, her movements small and inviting.
"Come sit, Bennett. You must be freezing."
Every bit of my grumpy mountain man hermit persona shatters. I don't just walk over, I practically prance toward her like a starved puppy finally being called for dinner. I’m at her side in three strides, sinking into the cushions next to her, my massive body dwarfing the sofa.
She smells like lavender and my soap, and as she leans her head against my shoulder, I realize the storm outside can rage forever for all I care. I’m already home.
Acacia shifts, melting further into my side until there isn't a breath of air between us. I hesitate for a heartbeat, my hand hovering over her head, before I finally give in and sink my fingers into her hair. It’s like silk, finer and softer than anything I’ve ever touched.
The sensation of those delicate strands sliding against my skin makes something in my chest ache.
I could stay like this for a lifetime, just breathing her in, existing in the quiet space where the only sound is the crackle of the fire and the rhythm of her breaths.
Then, she breaks the silence.
"Why do you live all the way up here by yourself, Bennett?"
I freeze. My heart, which had been slowing to a peaceful thrum, suddenly lurches in my chest. A cold sweat breaks out at the base of my neck as the memories of dust, fire, and the screams of men I couldn't save threaten to surge forward. My stomach twists into a knot of pure panic. How do I tell a creature this pure that I’m hiding from a world I no longer fit into?
She must feel the sudden tension in my frame.
She looks up, her eyes wide and perceptive.
"You don't have to tell me right now," she says softly, her hand reaching out to squeeze my forearm.
"You can think about your answer while I tell you why I’m here.
Why I decided to move into the Colorado mountains. Hollow Peak, specifically."
I let out a breath as relief pumps through my veins. "Okay," I rasp.
She starts talking, and I find myself caught up in her voice and words like a spell.
"I grew up in a house where silence was a luxury," she says, her voice low and melodic. "My parents... they didn't mean to be suffocating, but they had this image of who I was supposed to be. A polished, corporate version of myself that never quite fit."
"And the city?" I prompt, wanting to hear the cadence of her speech again.
Her nose scrunches up as she searches for the right words, a gesture that makes my chest tighten with how adorable it is.
"The city felt like… gray concrete and high-pressure marketing meetings where I was just another blank, nameless face in a cubicle.
It was all noise and no air. I felt like I was constantly shrinking myself just to get through the day.
People there... they didn't understand why I wanted space.
They didn't understand why I needed this .
" She gestures to the cabin, her brow furrowing in concentration before her face clears with a triumphant, sunny smile.
"You were always enough, Acacia," I rumble, the words tasting like truth. "They were just too small to see it."
She peers up at me, those damn green eyes filled with vulnerability and disbelief. I want to throat-punch everyone who made her feel like too much and yet lacking. They’re idiots and assholes for not recognizing her for the treasure she is.
“Bennett…” she murmurs, the longing in her voice pushing me closer and closer to my breaking point.
"You're brave," I tell her, and I mean it. She shakes her head, but I continue. “To leave everything you know for a dream? That takes a kind of courage I haven't seen in a long time.”
Acacia deflects, a small, sad smile touching her lips. "If it weren't for you, Bennett, my grand adventure of starting over would have ended before it even began. I’d just be a footnote in a local news report."
The thought punches me square in the sternum. The idea of her light and warmth extinguished in the snow because I wasn't there... A deep growl erupts from my throat as my arm tightens around Acacia, pulling her so close she’s practically in my lap.
"That’s never happening," I vow, my voice thick with possessive iron. "You’re never going to be in danger again, Acacia. Not while I’m standing. You’re under my protection now.”
She doesn't flinch at the intensity in my tone. Instead, she looks at me with a tenderness that nearly brings me to my knees. She reaches up, her palm warm against my jaw.
"I believe you," she whispers. "I don’t know anything about your past, but I can tell you’re a man of your word. I want your story, too, Bennett. All of it. Whenever you’re ready to tell me."
She leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss to my cheek. It’s a tiny gesture, but it feels more significant than any medal I was ever pinned with. My little bird snuggles back down, and I hold her while she drifts off to sleep.
My head is spinning as I stand, lifting her, wool blanket and all, into my arms. She fits so perfectly right here against my chest. I carry her into the bedroom and lay her down, tucking the quilts around her shoulders until she’s a cozy bundle.
I linger for a second, my knuckles grazing her cheek as I memorize the lines of her face.
My hands twitch to sketch every inch of her, but that will have to wait.
I head straight for the bathroom and crank the shower to its coldest setting. I need the freezing spray to shock my system, to dull the roar of my blood and the desperate, hungry need to crawl into that bed beside her. I’m a man on the edge, and I have to remember that she’s a guest.
Even if every cell in my body is screaming that she’s my destiny.