6. Calder
Calder
Dinner was awkward.
Not hostile. Not tense in the way that suggested someone was about to throw a punch or storm out. Just... awkward. Four people who didn't know how to share space, sitting around a table that had only ever held three.
I'd made stew. It was what I always made when the weather turned bad, a thick beef and vegetable thing that could simmer for hours and still taste good.
Comfort food. The kind of meal that filled you up and warmed you from the inside out.
I'd been making it for seven years, first for myself, then for Bo, then for Shepherd when he showed up half-frozen on our doorstep.
Now I was making it for her.
She'd insisted on coming to the table instead of eating by the fire.
Limped her way across the room with that stubborn set to her jaw, refusing Shepherd's offer of help, refusing my suggestion that she stay put.
By the time she lowered herself into the chair, she was pale and breathing hard, but she'd done it on her own. That clearly mattered to her.
I ladled stew into bowls and set them around the table without comment. Bread on a cutting board in the center, butter in a dish, glasses of water all around. Simple. Practical. No fuss.
She ate like someone who'd forgotten what food tasted like.
Fast at first, almost desperate, then slowing down as her body remembered that it wasn't starving anymore.
She didn't talk while she ate, and neither did the rest of us.
Just the sounds of spoons against ceramic, the crackle of the fire in the other room, the endless howl of wind outside.
Bo finished first. He always did, eating with a single-minded focus that didn't leave room for conversation. He pushed his bowl back and leaned against the wall, watching the rest of us with those amber eyes that never seemed to miss anything.
Shepherd ate slowly, methodically, the way he did everything. He had a book propped against the butter dish, reading while he ate, which was a habit I'd given up trying to break years ago.
And Noa... Noa finished her stew and then sat there, hands wrapped around her water glass, looking at all of us like she was trying to solve a puzzle.
“This was good,” she said finally, gesturing at her empty bowl. “Really good. Thank you.”
“Calder does most of the cooking,” Shepherd said without looking up from his book. “It's one of his many hidden talents.”
“Not hidden. Just not advertised.”
She almost smiled at that. Almost. “So how does this work? The three of you living out here?”
“How does what work?”
“The logistics.” She waved a hand vaguely. “Chores, responsibilities, personal space. You've been doing this for years, you must have some kind of system.”
It was a practical question. The kind of question someone asked when they were trying to figure out how to fit into an unfamiliar situation without stepping on toes. I appreciated that about her. She wasn't demanding or entitled. She was just trying to understand the rules.
“We each have our areas,” I said. “I handle the cooking, the maintenance, most of the heavy work around the property. Bo manages the animals and the trapping, brings in meat and pelts for trade. Shepherd keeps the books, handles any correspondence, makes sure we don't run out of supplies.”
“And you built this place yourself?”
“Mostly. Bo helped with some of the later additions.”
She looked around the kitchen, taking in the hand-hewn beams, the stone fireplace visible through the archway, the solid construction that had weathered seven winters without complaint. “It's impressive. Most people would have hired contractors.”
“Most people don't have reasons to avoid other people.”
The words came out more honest than I'd intended. I saw Shepherd's hand pause over his book, saw Bo shift slightly against the wall. Noa just looked at me with those sharp amber eyes, waiting.
“We all came here to get away from something,” I said, since I'd already opened the door. “Different somethings, but the result was the same. None of us wanted to be around people for a while. This place gave us the space to figure things out.”
“And you figured them out?”
“Some of them. Others are still works in progress.”
She nodded slowly, like that made sense to her. Like she understood something about needing distance from the world.
“I moved to Hollow Haven six months ago,” she said.
“Took the most remote posting the wildlife service had available. Everyone thought I was crazy, giving up a city position for fieldwork in the middle of nowhere.” She shrugged.
“But I needed to get away from... everything. Family expectations. Social obligations. People who thought they knew what was best for me better than I did.”
“And did it help? Getting away?”
“Some days.” She picked up her water glass, turning it in her hands. “Other days I wonder if I just traded one kind of lonely for another.”
The admission hung in the air between us. More honest than I'd expected from her, this prickly woman who'd spent the day insisting she didn't need anyone's help.
“Lonely isn't always bad,” Bo said unexpectedly. We all looked at him. He shrugged, uncomfortable with the attention but pushing through anyway. “Sometimes lonely is just... quiet. Space to figure out who you are without everyone else's noise.”
“That's surprisingly philosophical,” Noa said.
“Blame Shepherd. He's been reading at me for four years.”
Shepherd made an offended sound. “Reading at you implies you were listening.”
“I listen. I just don't always respond.”
Something shifted in the room. The awkwardness didn't disappear entirely, but it eased.
We weren't friends, the four of us. Weren't anything, really, except strangers thrown together by circumstance.
But for a moment, sitting around that table with empty bowls and full stomachs, we were something close to comfortable.
Noa pushed back from the table first. “I should let you get back to your evening. I've disrupted enough of your routine for one day.”
“You haven't disrupted anything.” The words came out before I could stop them. “We don't exactly have a rigid schedule around here.”
“Still. I'm sure you had plans that didn't involve babysitting a stranded omega.”
“Our plans involved waiting out a blizzard. That hasn't changed.”
She looked at me for a long moment, something unreadable in her expression. Then she nodded once and reached for her walking stick. “Well. Thank you for dinner. And for... everything else.”
“You're welcome.”
I watched her make her slow way back to the blankets by the fire, refusing help even though I could see how much the walk cost her. Stubborn. Proud. Determined to prove she didn't need anyone.
I understood that better than she probably realized.
The rest of the evening passed quietly. I washed the dishes while Shepherd returned to his reading nook and Bo disappeared outside to check on the animals one more time.
When I finished in the kitchen, I found Noa curled in her blankets with the ecology book, and I settled into my usual chair with my own worn paperback.
We read in silence for hours. Not uncomfortable silence. Just... quiet. The kind of quiet that came from people who didn't need to fill every moment with words. The fire crackled. The storm howled. Pages turned.
Around ten, her eyes started drooping. I watched her fight it, watched her force herself to focus on the words in front of her, watched her lose the battle one blink at a time.
I shouldn't have been watching so closely. Shouldn't have noticed the way her lashes fanned against her cheeks when she blinked, or the way she bit her lower lip when she was concentrating. But I couldn't seem to look away.
Eventually the book slipped from her fingers and her breathing evened out into the slow rhythm of genuine sleep.
Her face looked different when she slept.
Younger. Less guarded. The sharp edges softened into something almost vulnerable.
The furrow between her brows smoothed out, and her mouth relaxed from its usual tight line into something gentler.
Something that made me wonder what it would feel like to kiss her awake.
I looked away before I could think too much about that. But the thought lingered anyway, warm and dangerous in the back of my mind.
Shepherd retired first, disappearing into his room with a quiet goodnight.
Bo came back from outside covered in snow, shook himself off in the mudroom, and headed for his own bed without a word.
Normal for him. Bo didn't do goodbyes or small talk.
He just moved through the world on his own terms and expected everyone else to keep up.
I stayed.
Someone needed to keep the fire going through the night. That was what I told myself, anyway. The truth was more complicated, but I wasn't ready to examine it too closely.
I added logs when the flames burned low. Adjusted the damper to keep the heat steady. Listened to the wind tear at the walls and the windows and thought about fires of a different kind.
Seven years ago. Different lifetime. Different person.
I'd been good at my job. Really good. Fourteen years fighting wildfire, eight of them as a smokejumper, three as team lead.
I'd loved it in a way I'd never loved anything else.
The adrenaline, the teamwork, the feeling of doing something that mattered.
My crew was my family, the only real family I'd ever had.
Eight people who trusted me with their lives, and I trusted them with mine.
And then the Ridgeline Fire happened.
It was supposed to be routine. A lightning strike in a remote area, no structures threatened, low priority.
We'd dropped in to contain it before it could spread, same as we'd done a hundred times before.
The weather report said winds would stay calm.
The satellite imagery showed the fire moving slowly. Everything pointed to an easy day.
I gave the order to advance.
Twenty minutes later, the wind shifted. Twenty minutes after that, my entire crew was dead.
I'd listened to them die. One by one, their voices on the radio going from confused to scared to silent. I'd tried to reach them, tried to get back to where they were, but the fire had cut me off. All I could do was run and listen and hate myself for surviving when they didn't.
The inquiry cleared me. Called it an act of nature, an unforeseeable shift in conditions that no one could have predicted. They said I'd followed protocol, made the right calls with the information available, done everything I could to save my team.
It didn't matter. Eight people were dead because I'd told them to advance. Because I'd trusted weather reports and satellite imagery instead of my own instincts. Because I'd been so confident in my own judgment that I hadn't considered I might be wrong.
I'd quit the next day. Walked away from everything I'd known. Came to these mountains because they were empty and quiet and there was no one here whose life depended on my decisions.
For seven years, I'd kept my distance from people. Let Bo in because he was clearly suffering when I found him, and I couldn't turn away from that. Let Shepherd in for the same reason. But I'd kept walls up, even with them. Told myself it was better that way. Safer. For everyone.
And now there was an omega sleeping by my fire, and something in my chest was stirring that I'd thought I'd buried for good.
She shifted in her sleep, the blanket slipping off her shoulder.
I got up without thinking and crossed to where she lay, reaching down to pull the fabric back into place.
My fingers brushed her arm as I tucked the blanket around her, and the touch sent a jolt through me that I felt all the way to my spine.
Her skin was warm now, soft, and I wanted to trace my fingers along her shoulder, down her arm, learn the shape of her by touch.
She made a small sound, something between a sigh and a murmur, and leaned into the warmth. Into me. Her lips parted slightly, and I heard my name. Just a whisper, barely audible. “Calder.”
I froze. Stayed perfectly still, hand resting on the blanket, close enough to feel the heat of her through the fabric.
Close enough to lean down and press my mouth to hers.
It physically hurt to resist, but I didn’t let myself waver any closer to her.
Not now, not like this. I wouldn’t be one of those alphas who took without explicit consent.
She didn't wake. Just settled deeper into sleep, her breathing slow and even, her face peaceful in the firelight. Whatever dream had summoned my name had passed.
I made myself step back. Made myself return to my chair. My hands were shaking slightly. My whole body was tight with a need I hadn't felt in years, a wanting that went beyond simple attraction into something deeper. Something that scared the hell out of me.
This wasn't what I needed. Wasn't what she needed either, probably. She'd been clear about wanting space, wanting to be left alone, wanting to handle things on her own terms. The last thing she needed was some damaged alpha developing feelings because she'd stumbled into his cabin during a storm.
But I couldn't seem to make it stop.
I stayed in my chair until dawn, watching the fire and the storm and the omega who'd invaded my carefully constructed solitude. Watching her breathe. Watching her sleep. Watching the way the firelight played across her features and made her look like something out of a dream.
By the time the gray light started filtering through the windows, I'd almost convinced myself that what I was feeling was just instinct. Just biology. The natural response of an unbonded alpha to an unbonded omega in close quarters. Nothing more than chemistry.
Almost.
But when she woke with the dawn and found me still sitting there, when she looked at me with those amber eyes and said “You stayed up all night?” with something like wonder in her voice...
I knew I was fooling myself.
“Fire needed tending,” I said, which was true but not the whole truth.
She studied me for a long moment, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that she could see right through my excuse. But all she said was, “Thank you. For keeping it warm.”
“You're welcome.”
We looked at each other across the room, the fire crackling between us, and something passed in that look. Something I couldn't name and didn't want to examine.
Then she reached for the walking stick and started the slow process of getting up, and the moment broke.
But I didn't forget it. Couldn't forget it.
And I had a feeling she couldn't either.