Page 23 of No Axe to Grind (Ashwood Falls #1)

Gage

S he’s leaving tomorrow. I sit at my workbench in the garage, a chisel in one hand and a block of cedar in the other, trying to convince myself the knot in my chest is just frustration—that I’m pissed about the surprise, about the silence, about how fast it’s all slipping away.

I chip at the wood as if it wronged me, trying to believe I’m just irritated.

Her leaving tomorrow is just a detail I’d already expected.

That I’m not gutted. That I haven’t been counting the minutes since she told me, weighing each one like a stone in my chest.

Because I knew she’d leave. Of course I did. But that doesn’t mean I was ready to watch her go. But knowing it was inevitable doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.

The space around me smells like sawdust and oil, familiar and grounding.

The sharp scrape of metal against wood echoes through the garage as I chip away at the edges of the small box I’m making.

I need to keep my hands busy. Need something solid to focus on, because if I let my mind wander back to her eyes—red from crying, body wrapped in that damn blanket on the bearskin rug, lips trembling like she wanted to take it all back—I’ll fall apart myself.

She said she was leaving tomorrow. Just dropped it like a grenade between us.

And it went off. Silently. Slowly. Wrecking everything in its wake.

And I know what a real grenade feels like—been close enough to one to still hear the ringing in my ears.

But this? This is worse. Because there’s no sound, no smoke, no shrapnel.

Just the hollow ache of knowing something good is ending, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

She did nothing wrong. Hell, she probably meant to tell me sooner.

But I’d let myself believe in borrowed time.

I’d clung to this quiet, aching hope that we had a few more stolen days—just a few more lazy mornings in bed, with any luck, another snowstorm to trap her here like fate was on my side.

But hope is a hell of a drug, and I’d overdosed on it the second she looked at me like I was more than just a detour.

I should be relieved. This isn’t supposed to be my life.

I’m the guy who thrives in solitude, who doesn’t make room for anyone, who keeps his heart guarded like a damn locked safe.

I don’t build forever—I build touristy totem poles, temporary things, solid but silent.

And yet—somehow, she’s carved out a space in me I didn’t know was hollow until she filled it.

I keep telling myself I should be stronger than this.

That I’ve lost men before, blood and brothers in the dirt, and I survived that.

But this is different—it’s not death, it’s choice.

Her choice. And it cuts deeper than shrapnel ever did.

I keep blaming myself for letting her in, for lowering the walls I swore would never come down.

Now I’m terrified I’ll never be able to put them back up again.

Vulnerability was supposed to be a weakness, but with her it felt like breathing.

And now every inhale feels jagged, like my own ribs are punishing me for wanting more.

I hate that I’m scared—not of being alone, but of what it means to have tasted something real and to lose it.

I sand the edge of the box lid with more force than necessary. The line has to be smooth. Clean. The box isn’t big, but it’s something. A place for her to keep the pieces of her time here, if she wants to. A piece of me.

And on the inside of the lid, I carve into the soft underside of the cedar, the shape of a tree.

A different tree from the one she came here to destroy.

The one that somehow started this whole damn thing.

On it, in the tiniest, most delicate letters I could manage, I’ve carved a heart with the letters G + T inside.

She might never see it. Might toss it in a drawer, forget it entirely, or leave it behind like a souvenir that meant more to me than to her.

But I still have to make it. Not because she asked for it.

Not because I expect anything in return.

But because my hands need to give her something real, something lasting—even if she never knows just how much of me is carved into it.

When the box is finally done, I run my thumb along the smooth finish and set it aside to admire it.

I brush the wood shavings off my jeans and push up from the stool, suddenly exhausted.

The cabin windows are dark now, soft golden light spilling from behind the curtains.

I have no idea what time it is. She’s probably sleeping.

I step back into the cabin, boots scuffing quietly against the hardwood, the warmth of the inside air brushing against my cold skin.

The box is small and solid in my palm—cedar-scented, still faintly warm from my hands shaping it.

I pause in the doorway to the bedroom, heart thudding like I’ve never seen the space before.

It’s bathed in firelight, soft gold shadows flickering across the quilt and walls.

The air smells like her shampoo and wood-smoke, like comfort and endings.

My eyes sweep over everything slowly, needing to absorb it all—the messy pile of pillows we never fixed this morning, the faint dent in the mattress from where she curled up only a few hours ago, and the stillness that hums like a held breath.

And there she is.

She’s curled up in my bed—on my side—like she belongs there.

Blankets tangled around her legs, Rocco stretched out at her feet, and Toby tucked in close against her chest like a tiny, loyal sentinel.

One of her hands is pressed softly to the empty space beside her, as if she'd reached for me and missed. The other is buried in Toby’s fur, fingers loosely curled like she fell asleep mid-thought.

Her lips are parted just slightly, breath slow and even.

But it’s the tear tracks on her cheeks that gut me.

She cried. Because of me.

And that’s a pain I don’t know how to fix. I never wanted her to carry one, especially not alone in my bed. I swallow hard and grip the box tighter in my hand, forcing the sting behind my eyes to stay put.

God, she’s beautiful. Even like this. Especially like this.

I want to memorize everything—burn it into my brain like the blueprints of something I’ll never be able to build again.

The gentle curve of her cheek nestled against my pillow.

The soft, golden glow of firelight weaving through the strands of her hair like molten copper.

The rise and fall of her chest, steady and calm, beneath my quilt, each breath syncing with the aching beat of my heart.

I stand there for a long, long time, not daring to blink, afraid that if I look away, the moment will vanish.

That she will. So I hold on to it like it’s the last sunrise I’ll ever see.

Eventually, I move. Quiet as I can, I kneel beside her suitcase and gently unzip the front pouch. I slide the box inside, nestling it between a scarf and a knit beanie I’ve seen her wear around the cabin. Then I zip it closed, seal it like a secret, and let out a breath.

One more night. That's all I get. One more.

I ease off my flannel, then peel out of my jeans, each movement quiet, measured.

The room is so still I can hear the soft rhythm of her breathing, the occasional crackle from the fireplace.

I crawl into bed beside her, careful not to shift the mattress too much.

Toby lifts his head, ears twitching, but after a sleepy blink, he resettles at the foot of the bed.

The blanket is warm from her body heat as I pull it up over us and wrap my arm around her waist. My fingers rest lightly against her belly, feeling the rise and fall of her breath under my palm.

She sighs softly in her sleep, instinctively curling into me like she knows I’m there even in her dreams.

And I close my eyes, burying my face in her hair, breathing her in like she’s the only real thing left in this world.

Because right now, she is.

I lie awake for hours, holding her close, counting the beats of her heart against my chest like they’re the only thing anchoring me to solid ground.

Each thump is a reminder that she's still here, still mine—for now. She shifts now and then, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she nestles closer, and I take my time running my hand along the curve of her back. I'm trying to memorize her—every freckle, every breath, every detail etched into my skin like she belongs there. Because tomorrow, when the bed is cold and the silence is louder than it’s ever been, I’ll need something to hold on to. And it’s her. It will always be her.

When sleep finally drags me under, it’s a losing battle against the noise in my head.

My dreams are jagged and cruel—her silhouette fading into the woods, the cabin echoing with silence, every room stripped of warmth and laughter.

I chase her through the snow, but no matter how fast I run, she keeps slipping farther away, just out of reach.

I wake with a jolt, lungs seizing like I’ve been underwater, heart slamming against my ribs as if it’s trying to break free, to chase her down before she’s gone for good.

But she’s still here.

Her body is still tucked into mine, warm and soft and so damn real. Relief floods me so fast it steals the air from my lungs. I don’t even try to fall back asleep again. I just lie there in the dark, wide awake, staring at the ceiling and holding her like maybe if I don’t let go, she won’t leave.

But morning always comes.