Page 15 of Fire and Frost

Nia gave a small, humorless smile. “Maybe not. But it feels like it is.”

The wind rattled the windows, and for a long moment the only sound between them was the storm. Soren reached out, resting her hand lightly on the table—close enough to be felt, not enough to presume.

“People leave,” she said. “Doesn’t mean you did something wrong. Sometimes they just can’t handle what’s real.”

Nia looked at her, trying to read sincerity from bravado, and found only warmth. That steady, grounding energy again. “You talk like you’ve been left a few times yourself,” she said softly.

Soren’s mouth twitched. “More times than I’ve left, yeah.”

They both smiled faintly, a shared, tired understanding that didn’t need more words.

Nia picked up her spoon again, appetite returning in small cautious bites. The soup was hot, surprisingly good, and so was the silence that followed—companionable instead of heavy.

“Thanks,” she said at last.

“For what?”

“For letting me talk. I don’t usually… do that.”

Soren’s grin returned, warmer this time. “Guess I’m good for something after all.”

Nia rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it. Outside, the snow kept falling, soft and relentless, as if the mountain meant to keep them both right where they were.

The worst of the tension had bled out of Nia’s shoulders. The food helped. So did Soren’s quiet, steady presence—no demands, no probing, just the simple grace of being seen.

They lingered long after the plates were cleared. The waitress had refilled Soren’s coffee twice and Nia’s tea once; both cups had gone lukewarm. Outside, the storm pressed its white face to the window, erasing the line between ground and sky.

Soren traced the rim of her mug. “You know, you’re not the only one who’s bad at endings.”

Nia raised an eyebrow. “You? You seem like someone who moves on easily.”

“That’s the trick,” Soren said, half-smile crooked. “I’m good at leaving, not good at staying gone.” She glanced out the window, then back again. “I did a lot of traveling after my dad died. Construction crews, odd jobs—Texas, Nevada, anywherethat didn’t look like home. Thought if I kept moving, I wouldn’t have to deal with anything that hurt.”

Nia leaned in slightly. “Did it work?”

“For a while.” Soren’s thumb tapped the side of her cup. “Then my mom got sick. I came back to help her, stayed after she passed. Ended up taking over the shop.”

There was no self-pity in her tone, just a calm acceptance that made it hit harder.

“I’m sorry,” Nia said softly.

Soren shrugged one shoulder. “She was stubborn. Guess I get that from her.”

They shared a small smile—sad but genuine.

Nia found herself studying the lines of Soren’s hands where they rested on the table: strong, scarred in places, a faint tattoo winding from wrist to thumb. Those hands had been on her skin last night. The memory made her pulse flutter.

“You fix things for everyone else,” Nia said. “Who fixes you?”

Soren looked surprised, then thoughtful. “Never thought about it.” She gave a low laugh. “Guess that’s why I keep everything in pieces—easier to repair when it breaks.”

Nia’s mouth curved faintly. “That’s an unhealthy metaphor.”

“Probably,” Soren admitted. “But it’s honest.”

Something softened in Nia’s chest. The silence between them was warmer now, less wary. She reached for her teacup, misjudged the distance, and her fingers brushed against Soren’s knuckles. The touch was brief, accidental—or should have been.

Neither of them moved away.