Page 16 of No Axe to Grind (Ashwood Falls #1)

Our feet are being held down by two large and incredibly warm dogs, who have taken their roles as nighttime heaters and emotional support animals very seriously.

Rocco lets out a deep, satisfied groan like he’s settling in for the long haul, while Toby sighs dramatically as if he's offended he had to move at all.

Their combined weight is like being sandbagged by love and fur.

I shift onto my side and squint at him through the dim firelight. "So... just checking—do you ever actually talk, or are you committed to this strong, silent lumberjack cosplay until the spring thaw?"

He lets out a soft breath, amused. "I talk. When I’ve got something worth saying."

I wait a few moments, watching him like he’s a handsome rock I’m willing to wait out. Still nothing. I groan dramatically and fling one arm in the air. "And do you? Or are we saving all your words for a future national emergency?"

"Sometimes," he says with a half-smile, like he’s letting me in on a secret but only giving me the smallest bite of the cookie.

"Any time soon?"

He huffs another laugh. "Pushy."

"Nosy, maybe. But come on—I’m sharing a bed with you. I deserve at least the CliffsNotes version of who I’m bunking with."

We both smile.

Then, quietly, he says, "I served in the Army. Trace did too—we were on the same team. Same dirt, same missions, same bad chow. We’ve seen the worst of it together."

I blink. Well, that escalated faster than my emotional support chocolate stash. Here I was expecting a safe little story about his first pet turtle or how he hates green beans—and instead, wham. Trauma bomb, right between the flannel seams.

"How long did you two serve?"

"Too long," he says, letting out a breath as he stares at the ceiling like the memories are etched there.

"We were mostly overseas. Trace used to joke that if I wasn't already a walking thundercloud before deployment, the desert heat would've finished the job and baked the rest of my personality into beef jerky. "

I let the beef jerky comment slide, which should earn me a medal for restraint because I could do a lot with that comment. But curiosity wins out. "Why did you leave the Army?"

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he won’t answer. But then he does.

"Our last mission... we were extracting hostages from a cell in Northern Syria.

Everything went sideways. We were ambushed—hit from all directions with no warning.

I can still hear the gunfire, the chaos, the screaming.

We fought like hell, did everything we could to get them out.

But we were outnumbered, outgunned. One minute we thought we had a chance, the next.

.. it was over. They were gone. We lost them all.

His voice dips lower, rough with grief.

"It broke something in me, Tessa. Not just as a soldier. As a person. I’ve seen death before, seen friends fall—but this... those people were counting on us. And we failed them. I failed them."

He swallows hard, like he's trying to force the memory back down, but it doesn’t go anywhere. "That mission haunted me. Still does, some nights. That was the day I knew I couldn’t stay in anymore. Couldn’t face another op, another decision that might get people killed. So I walked away."

My heart aches. I don’t know what to say. So I whisper, "I’m sorry."

He nods, not looking at me. "I kept seeing their faces. Hearing the gunfire. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t breathe. So when Trace offered to sell me this land, I took it. Came up here and built a life where I didn’t have to watch people die anymore."

I reach for his hand under the blanket and find it, warm and solid.

"You built something beautiful," I whisper. "Even if you don’t let many people see it."

He finally looks at me. "I let you see it."

My chest tightens, like my heart’s caught between two beats.

This moment... this connection... it buzzes between us like static, pulsing with a gravity I don’t understand.

It’s too much and not enough all at the same time, this perfect storm of tension and tenderness, and it’s making it nearly impossible to breathe.

I want to move closer, to bridge the space between us, but I don’t.

Instead, I hold still—aware of every inch of him, of the firelight dancing in his eyes, of the way his fingers are still curled lightly around mine like a promise we’re too scared to say out loud.

Neither of us moves.Neither of us speaks.

As the fire crackles, his fingers tighten slightly around mine, but we don’t kiss. We do nothing reckless. When he finally closes his eyes, and I close mine, I feel something settle deep in my chest.

Warmth.

Safety.

And something I shouldn’t name because we’re not meant to be.

Me with my cupcake-wrapped heartbreak and him with his ghost-haunted silence.

We’re mismatched puzzle pieces from two different boxes—mine labeled 'overly emotional with snack-based coping mechanisms' and his marked 'brooding ex-military with a chainsaw. '

But still, I feel it. The slow-burning pull of him. Like gravity doesn’t care that it makes no sense.

And as I lie there, trying not to shiver from more than just the cold, I realize something terrifying:

I might not be ready to fall again.

But I’m already leaning.