Chapter 22
Marcy
The world is muffled when I step outside.
Snow clings to the trees, their branches bowed like they’ve been holding their breath all week.
The storm has finally broken. The sky isn’t clear—just a thin wash of pale blue fighting through stubborn gray—but the flakes have slowed to a lazy drift instead of the heavy, endless curtain that swallowed everything these last few days.
The air is sharp and clean, cold enough to sting the inside of my nose. I tug the borrowed gloves higher on my wrists and exhale, watching my breath bloom white before it disappears.
Then I hear it: the steady thud of an axe biting into wood.
I follow the sound around the side of the house, boots crunching through the snow’s crust. And there he is.
Landon.
He’s by a stack of rounds near the tree line, flannel jacket unzipped, beanie pulled low over his ears. His breath fogs as he lifts the axe, muscles flexing beneath his jacket. The blade comes down clean, splitting the log into two neat halves with a satisfying crack.
My throat goes a little dry.
It isn’t just his strength, though that’s impossible not to notice. It’s the rhythm. The control. Like everything about him—measured, steady, deliberate. The kind of strength that doesn’t announce itself but holds things together without asking for thanks.
He glances up at that exact moment. Our eyes catch. Something flickers in his expression—surprise, maybe, or just awareness. He straightens and wipes a gloved hand across his brow.
“Morning,” he says. His voice carries easily in the still air.
“Morning.” Mine comes out a little breathless. I clear my throat, forcing casualness. “Need a hand?”
He frowns like he isn’t sure I mean it. “With this?”
“I can stack, at least.” I nod toward the porch.
There’s a beat long enough that I wonder if he’ll turn me down. Then he jerks his chin toward the growing pile. “Alright. Don’t say I didn’t warn you when your arms hate me later.”
I smile and crunch through the snow to join him.
The work is simple. He splits the rounds—clean, efficient—and I gather the halves and carry them to the stack by the porch. My breath comes in little puffs, arms straining even with just a few at a time. It feels good. Real. Like I’m finally pulling my weight instead of watching from the sidelines.
He studies the pile I’ve started, then steps over and nudges a few pieces into a neater crisscross. “Here,” he says. “Leave little gaps. Lets the air move through so it seasons right.”
“Got it.” I copy his pattern. “See? I can be useful.”
A tiny sound—almost a laugh—escapes him. “Never said you weren’t.”
“Your tone said it.”
He glances up, mouth tipping just a little. “What my tone meant was, ‘don’t throw your back out,’ which isn’t the most romantic sentence I’ve ever said, but it keeps my workers' comp premiums down.”
I roll my eyes and reach for another half-log. “Swoon.”
For a while, we work in comfortable silence.
The whump of the axe. The thunk of wood stacking.
The soft hiss of the last flakes drifting down.
When I steal glances at him, I catch him doing the same—quick, almost sheepish.
The air between us feels… clearer than it has in days, like the sky after snow.
Like we’re both learning how to breathe again.
He sets another round on the stump and lifts the axe. “Took me years to get this right,” he says suddenly. “Used to send the blade burying in the block and nearly bounce my teeth out.”
“Who taught you?” I ask, adjusting a lopsided layer.
“My stepdad.” He raises and drops the axe—crack. “Rick said if I could split wood, I’d always stay warm even if the power went out.” He sets the axe aside and toes the halves toward me, grinning. “Also said it was cheaper than therapy.”
“Was it?”
“Sometimes.” He shrugs. “Mostly it’s just… rhythm. Something to do with your hands while your brain works out the knots.”
I tuck that away, filing it under things I’m learning about him. “What about when you were a kid? Before Rick?”
He hesitates for just a moment, then answers without any drama. “We didn’t have a fireplace. We had space heaters and a lot of blankets. And I spent more time than I should’ve making sure my mom stayed warm.” He flicks me a look, lightening the mood. “You learn to make do.”
“I’m good at that,” I say. The words come out quieter than I mean them to.
His gaze lingers like he catches the edge hidden underneath. He doesn’t push, though. “You ever do winters like this?”
“In Hamilton?” I huff a laugh. “We get storms. But nothing like this. My parents weren’t the hot cocoa, sit-by-the-fire type. If the power went out, my dad would pace around swearing at the hydro company.” I nudge a piece of wood into place.
“And your mom?”
I pause. “My mom has her own issues. She always wanted things to look perfect on the outside, no matter how bruised and broken they were underneath. She liked putting on this persona of a loving, involved mother, but really she was more worried about herself. When I was little and had a bad dream, she’d tell me to drink some water, go back to bed, and not wake her again. ”
He goes still for a beat. “I’m sorry.”
I almost say you don’t have to be—because what good does sorry do for things that lived and died years ago?—but something in his voice makes me let it land. Warmly. Like heat soaking into cold fingers.
He reaches for another log and sets it up. “Your nightmares seem to be improving... since you’ve been staying over.”
I pause, the wood suddenly heavy in my hands. “You noticed.”
“Hard not to when someone goes boneless on your chest and drools on your shirt.”
My face flares hot. “I did not.”
“You did a little.” He waits just long enough for my outrage to peak. “I liked it.”
It shouldn’t twist my heart the way it does. But it does.
I turn a half-smile into my scarf and carry the logs to the stack.
“Bend your knees more,” he calls after me. “Use your legs.”
“You say that like it’s actually helpful.”
He walks over and gently touches my elbow. “Here.” His hand slides to my hip, not possessive—guiding. He shifts my stance a few inches. “Keeps you from wrenching your back.”
The heat of his palm burns right through the layers. I can’t tell if it’s the cold or him making my breath catch. “Like this?”
“That’s it.”
I focus hard on the wood. On the little gaps. On not melting into a puddle from a single touch.
We make a few more trips, and I start to find a rhythm that feels like mine, not just his.
Each time I straighten, he’s already setting the next round.
The sight of him—steady, sure—works something loose in my chest I didn’t know was knotted.
The kind of loose that lets a laugh escape when the last armload slides dangerously off my stack, and I scramble to catch it.
He chuckles. “You’re ambitious.”
“I’m cold,” I counter, and that’s true. The wind nips any skin I haven’t bundled up. My nose is probably as red as a stop sign by now.
He studies me for a second, then peels off his beanie and tugs it over my head before I can argue. “Here.”
I blink up at him from beneath the slouchy knit, overwhelmed by how much it smells like him—cedar and soap and winter air. “What about you?”
“I like to live dangerously.”
“Reckless.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face.
I take another step toward the pile, my foot landing on what looks like snow-packed ground. It isn’t. Ice slides out from under me, and I yelp, arms shooting out to catch nothing but air. Landon reacts instantly. He grabs for me, and I grab for him, and momentum does the rest.
We hit the drift in a heap—me flat on my back, him half sprawled on top of me. Snow puffs up around us in a sparkling cloud. The cold shocks right through my coat, and a startled, breathless laugh bursts out of me.
He’s already pushing up on his hands, face hovering over mine, eyes searching. “You okay?”
I nod, still laughing. “Graceful as ever.”
“Let me—” He shifts his weight, giving me space. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” The words escape before my brain can stop them. “I mean—” I swallow hard. “I’m fine.”
He freezes. We both do.
His body radiates warmth even through our layers of clothing. His breath brushes my cheek. Snow clings to his hair and lashes. Up close, those green eyes are shot through with gold I only notice when the light hits just right.
Something hums between us—quiet and certain, like a wire stretched taut.
My heart skips as his gaze drops to my mouth, then lifts again.
I could tilt my chin up. He could lean down.
It would be simple. It would be reckless in a way that doesn’t feel like breaking a rule, but like finally admitting one has been rewritten.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. Loud. Harsh. Real life, crashing back in.
He goes rigid, his forehead touching mine for one heartbeat that feels like both an apology and a promise. Then he pulls back and fumbles for the phone.
“Becket?” His voice comes out rougher than usual. “Yeah.” He glances at me, something like regret flickering in his eyes. “Okay. Thanks.”
He ends the call and runs a hand through his hair, shaking loose the snow. “The plows got through. Roads are open.”
The spell breaks.
I feel it—the shift. The porch, the stacked wood, the drift we’ve pressed into with our bodies—nothing physical changes. But something inside me recoils. Because open roads mean options. And options mean I can’t pretend this is somewhere the world can’t reach us anymore.
“Right,” I say, my voice carefully neutral. “Back to reality.”
He searches my face like he’s trying to read something without making me feel exposed. “Reality’s not all bad.”
“I know.” I do know that. “It’s just… noisy.”
He nods, understanding. “We don’t have to figure anything out right now.”
“I know,” I repeat. I’m not sure if I’m reassuring him or myself.
He stands and extends his hand. I take it, and he pulls me up easily, steadying me when my boot slips on the ice. He doesn’t release my hand right away. Neither do I.
We brush snow off each other—his palm skimming my shoulder in a way that heats more than it should—and then we return to work. There’s comfort in the rhythm now. Split. Stack. Breathe. The kind of ordinary that feels like a prayer.
After a few minutes, he says, “When the roads open, everyone gets restless. Town comes back to life fast. Folks think they need to make up for lost time.”
“And you?”
“I usually do a parts run, clear the lot, point Wes at any drift bigger than he is.” A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “This time I might… slow down.”
“On my account?” I try to make it a tease, but there’s a tremor underneath I can’t hide.
“On my account,” he says simply. Then, softer: “But I’m here for whatever you need. If that’s the apartment or my place again… You get to choose the pace. I’ll follow your lead.”
The words settle like warmth under my ribs. “Thank you.”
We finish the pile. My arms tremble in that satisfying way that says I’ve actually accomplished something.
He picks up two armfuls, and we carry them to the porch together, our shoulders bumping lightly.
When we drop the last logs by the door, I blow into my fingers and flex them inside my gloves.
I peel off Landon’s beanie and hold it out to him.
“Keep it,” he says. “I’ve got another.”
We stand there for a moment, facing each other with a stack of wood between us and a drift with the shape of us imprinted behind. The silence is easy again. Not empty. Not heavy. Just… ours.
“Can I ask you something?” I say.
“Anything.”
“When you said I didn’t have nightmares… those nights… Why do you think that is?”
He considers this. He doesn’t rush. “Because your body believed you were safe.” His mouth tucks like he worries he’s said too much. “You don’t have to be on guard every second up here. Not with me.”
A lump forms in my throat. “No one ever… stayed before. Not like that.”
“Then they were idiots.”
A surprised laugh slips out of me. It feels bright. “My parents weren’t big on comfort,” I say, the words tasting less sharp than they used to. “If I was scared, I was told to get over it. So I learned to get small instead.”
He’s quiet for a long beat. “You don’t have to be small here.”
I nod. “I’m starting to learn that.”
He doesn’t step closer or rush the moment. He just nods like I’ve said something important and he’s filed it away somewhere safe. “Good.”
The wind shifts and sends snow skittering down from the eaves. He glances at the sky. “We should get inside. Wes will threaten to call Search and Rescue if we make him eat lunch alone.”
“Tragedy.”
“Truly.”
We climb the steps and without thinking, he reaches out to brush a snowflake off my cheek. His thumb lingers a half-second too long. My breath does that hitch thing again, and this time I don’t try to hide it.
He notices. Of course he notices. His eyes soften. “Reality can wait five more seconds,” he murmurs. He’s closer than I realized, snow dusting his shoulders, his hair damp at the edges. His eyes search mine like he’s weighing something he’s wanted to do for days.
Then he cups my cheek.
The warmth of his palm startles me, even through the sting of cold air. His thumb brushes just beneath my cheekbone, slow and sure, giving me every chance to turn away. I don’t. I hold my breath instead.
He kisses me. His mouth is warm, lips slightly chapped from the cold.
It starts soft, careful—like he’s testing the ground before stepping fully onto it.
But that steadiness in him doesn’t falter or waver.
I rise onto my toes, leaning into him, and his hand slides back to cradle my jaw.
The world goes very quiet—no storm, no roads, no Brett, no future to unravel. Just this. Him. Warmth against cold.
When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t step away. His forehead rests against mine, his breath mingling with mine in the thin winter air.
“Okay?” he asks, his voice rough, almost vulnerable.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “More than okay.”
He smiles and lets the door swing open. Warmth rushes out—garlic and coffee and Wes’ terrible playlist spilling into the night.
Back to reality.
But not like before. The roads might be open and the world ready to rush back in, but something in me has shifted.
There’s a stack of wood by the door with my fingerprints all over it.
There’s a dent in the snow out back that proves I didn’t flinch away.
There’s the taste of something sweet and steady still lingering on my mouth.
And there’s Landon, brushing my sleeve as we step inside—like a reminder I can tuck into my pocket: I don’t have to do any of this alone.