Chapter 4 – Ezra
The wind hits the cabin hard.
I stop mid-step, one hand braced against the doorframe, and listen.
The whole structure groans enough to remind me that even solid logs and stone can only take so much.
Snow presses against the north-facing windows, white and dense, blocking out what little moonlight might have filtered through the storm.
I move to the nearest window and check the latch. Secure. I test the frame anyway, feeling for give, for cold air seeping through gaps. Nothing.
Behind me, the fire crackles softly, and I hear the faint rustle of fabric—Wendy shifting on the couch.
But I don't turn around.
I make my way around the perimeter, checking the other windows, the door, the chimney flue. Everything is as it should be. We're sealed in tight.
But the storm isn't letting up. If anything, it's getting worse.
I glance toward Kinsley's room. The door is cracked open, the way she likes it, and I can see the faint outline of her shape beneath the blankets. Her breathing is slow and even.
I move back into the main room, my boots quiet on the floorboards, and finally let myself look at Wendy.
She's sitting on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, the blanket I gave her draped over her lap.
Her hair is loose now, falling in soft waves around her face, and she's holding one of Kinsley's wildflower guides.
She's not reading it, though. Just holding it, her thumb tracing the edge of the cover absently.
Bolt is sprawled on the floor at her feet, his head resting on his paws, eyes half-closed.
She looks up when I cross the room, and her expression changes, like she's been waiting to see if I'd come back.
"Everything alright?" she asks quietly.
"Storm's worse," I say. "But we're fine. The cabin's solid."
She nods, her gaze flicking toward the window. "It sounds angry out there."
"It is."
I move to the stove, then check the kettle. I pour myself a mug and lean against the counter, cradling it in both hands.
Wendy sets the book aside and shifts slightly, pulling the blanket higher around her shoulders.
I look away and take a sip of tea.
"Do you get storms like this often?" she asks.
"Every winter. Some are worse than others."
"And you're just… used to it?"
"You get used to a lot of things when you don't have a choice."
She's quiet for a moment, then says, "That sounds lonely."
I glance at her, and she's watching me with those green eyes, open and curious but not pitying.
"It's what it is," I say.
"Still lonely."
I don't argue. There's no point.
She shifts again, tucking her feet more firmly beneath her, and the movement draws my attention despite myself. Her socks are mismatched—one dark blue, the other gray with faint stripes. I don't know why I notice that, but I do.
"Thank you," she says suddenly. "For letting me stay."
"You've said that already."
"I know. But I really mean it."
I nod, not trusting myself to say more.
She looks down at her hands, her fingers twisting the edge of the blanket. "I'm not usually this helpless. I swear."
"You weren't helpless. You were unprepared. There's a difference."
"That's generous."
"It's true."
She smiles faintly.
I set the mug down and move to the chair near the fire, lowering myself into it. The wood creaks under my weight. Wendy's gaze follows me, and I feel it, like she's cataloging me the same way I've been cataloging her.
The dog lifts his head, yawns, and shifts closer to the fire. His tail thumps once against the floor before he settles again.
"He likes you," Wendy says.
"Dogs usually do."
"Why's that?"
"I don't know. Maybe they can tell I won't hurt them."
"Is that all it takes?"
I look at her, and she holds my gaze, her expression open but layered with something I can't quite name.
"Most of the time," I say.
She nods slowly, then looks back at the fire. The light flickers across her face, catching in her hair, softening the edges of her features. She looks warm. Comfortable.
I shift in the chair.
"What about Kinsley?" Wendy asks. "Does she get lonely out here?"
"Sometimes. Probably more than she lets on."
"She seems happy, though."
"She is. Mostly." I pause, choosing my words carefully. "But I know she's missing things. Community. Other kids. A mother."
"You're doing the best you can. That's what matters."
"Is it?" I ask.
"Yes."
I study her for a moment, trying to figure out what makes her so sure.
"You don't know me," I say.
"I know enough."
"You've been here a few hours."
"And in those few hours, I've seen you keep your daughter safe, warm, and loved.
I've seen you pull a stranger out of a blizzard without hesitation.
I've seen you give up your coat, your food, your space, all of it without asking for anything in return.
" She pauses, her voice softer now. "That's enough. "
I don't know what to say to that.
She looks away, breaking the moment, and adjusts the blanket around her shoulders again. The movement draws my attention to her hands, her fingers still faintly red from the cold.
I imagine those hands in mine. Warm. Steady.
I shove the thought down hard.
"You should get some sleep," I say, my voice rougher than I intend.
She glances at me, startled, then nods. "Yeah. You're probably right."
She arranges the pillow, smooths the blanket, then hesitates.
"Ezra?"
I look up.
"Thank you," she says again. "Really."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
She settles onto the couch, pulling the blanket over herself, and the dog shifts closer, curling against her legs. She rests one hand on his head, her fingers scratching absently behind his ears.
I stay in the chair, watching the fire, listening to the storm.
After a while, her breathing evens out. Not asleep yet, but close.
I stand and move quietly toward the hallway, pausing at Kinsley's door to check on her one more time. She's still asleep, her face peaceful in the dim light.
I pull the door shut slightly, then retreat to my own room.
I sit on the edge of the bed and pull off my boots, setting them aside. My flannel comes next, and I toss it onto the chair. The cold presses against the window, but the cabin holds the warmth, and I'm not uncomfortable in just my undershirt.
I lie back on the bed, one arm behind my head, and stare at the ceiling.
The wind howls. The cabin groans. And beneath it all, I hear faint sounds from the main room.
I close my eyes and try not to think about her.
It doesn't work.
I think about the way she looked sitting on the couch, soft and warm in the firelight. The way she smiled at Kinsley. The way her voice steadied when she talked about teaching, like she was reaching for something she'd lost.
I think about her hands. Her eyes. The curve of her shoulders beneath the blanket.
I think about how easily she fit into this space, into Kinsley's world, into the rhythm of my life.
And I think about how dangerous that is.
I've spent years building walls around myself and Kinsley. Keeping people out. Keeping us safe. It's worked. We're fine. We don't need anyone else.
But Wendy's here now, and those walls feel thinner than they should.
I shift onto my side, my hand curling into a fist against the mattress.
This is temporary, I remind myself. The storm will pass. She'll leave. Things will go back to the way they were.
But even as I think it, I know it's not true.
I lie here in the dark, listening to the storm, and let myself admit that I don't want her to leave.