Page 24 of No Axe to Grind (Ashwood Falls #1)

Tessa

T he morning is quiet. Too quiet.

I wake up with Gage's arm wrapped around me, warm and strong. Safe. For a moment, I pretend to still be asleep, soaking in the feel of him wrapped around me, his body pressed close like maybe everything is still okay. But the second I shift slightly, his breath catches. And then he's gone.

He pulls away as if I burned him, the warmth of his skin vanishing as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed.

Without a word, without even looking back at me, he stands, grabs his flannel and jeans off the floor, and disappears out of the room.

The door doesn't slam, but it might as well have.

The silence he leaves behind is louder than anything he could've said.

I dress slowly, half-hoping he’ll say something—anything—that might stop me from going. But Gage moves through the cabin like a ghost, silent and untouchable, keeping just enough distance to make it clear he’s already bracing for me to be gone.

The dogs, at least, don’t play it cool. Toby weaves figure eights around my legs, his tail swishing like he's trying to herd me back inside the bedroom where I belong. His little whines pierce right through the wall I’m desperately trying to keep up.

Rocco, solid and steady, rests his massive head against my thigh, those soulful eyes watching me like he understands every unspoken word.

It’s the kind of farewell that splits you wide open, because even if Gage won’t say it—his dogs already have.

“Hey,” I whisper, kneeling to kiss Rocco’s muzzle and scratch behind his ears. “You take care of him, okay? He needs you.” I ruffle Toby’s ears and smile through the sting behind my eyes. “And you—keep being your chaotic little self. You’re perfect, fur tornado and all.”

I glance up at Gage, hoping—praying—for a flicker of softness, a crack in the stone wall he’s put between us.

A smile. A nod. Anything. But he stands there like a statue, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw clenched so hard I can see the muscle tick.

He’s waiting—silent, still—and deliberately staring past me like I’m already gone.

“I’m ready,” I say, even though it feels like a lie. I'm anything but ready.

He nods once, curt and mechanical, like he’s confirming a delivery, not saying goodbye to the woman he’s spent the last few days tangled up with.

His eyes don’t meet mine. His jaw tightens, and his fingers flex once around the throttle of the snowmobile like he’s barely keeping it together.

Not a hug. Not a word. Just that single, sterile gesture that slices deeper than anything he could’ve said.

The snowmobile ride is colder than it should be.

Not because of the temperature, but because I can’t feel anything but the hollow space in my chest. I wrap my arms around his waist like I did before, but he doesn’t reach back for me this time.

Doesn’t joke when we hit a bump, doesn’t slow to make sure I’m okay.

It’s just motion. Just wind. Just goodbye.

When we arrive at the wide, flat patch of snow where Marvin waits with his bright yellow bush plane, I climb off the snowmobile and turn to face Gage.He doesn't even get off the vehicle. He just stays seated.

Doesn’t even take off his helmet.

The propeller blades of the plane whir behind me, the noise loud and wrong in this place that’s been nothing but quiet and heartbeats and laughter for days.

“Well,” I say, wrapping my arms tighter around myself, forcing a half-smile through the ache in my chest, “this is...dramatic. Like something out of one of those over-the-top movies you pretend to hate.”

Still nothing. Not even a twitch.

My voice falters, but I push through. “If I’d known the goodbye scene came with this much ice, I would’ve packed an Oscar speech.”

No answer.

“I’ll, uh, always be grateful for what you did. For everything.” I force a smile, but my lips tremble. “You didn’t have to help me. You definitely didn’t have to let me stay. But you did. And I won’t forget it. I won’t forget you.”

Still nothing. He’s a mountain again. Cold and unmoving.

So I lean forward and press a kiss to the side of his cheek, just under the edge of the helmet strap.

His skin is warm—familiar in a way that makes my throat tighten.

It’s not just a cheek. It’s not just a kiss.

It’s the last time I’ll feel this close to him.

And for a single, fragile second, I let myself believe he might turn, might say something, might kiss me back.

But he doesn’t. He just breathes.

I nod, the motion stiff and mechanical, trying to hold myself together when everything inside me is unraveling. He's done with me—his silence is louder than any goodbye. I swallow past the lump rising in my throat and try again, softer this time. "Take care of yourself, Gage."

Still nothing.

So I turn, blinking hard against the tears that threaten to spill, and force my legs to move. Each step toward the plane feels heavier than the last, like I’m walking away from more than just him—like I’m leaving a piece of myself behind in the snow.

Marvin tips his hat at me. “Everything alright?”

“Just peachy,” I lie.

He helps me up and into the cabin. The moment I’m inside, the dam breaks.

Silent tears slip down my cheeks as I buckle myself in, my hands trembling in my lap.

I glance back, desperate for one last glimpse of him—some flicker of hesitation, of regret.

But he's already gone. The snowmobile is just a faint blur disappearing into the trees, swallowed whole by the endless white.

I press my forehead to the cold window as Marvin lifts us into the air. Below, the snowy pines and rugged mountains shrink until they’re just shadows on a canvas of clouds, the place that somehow became a home reduced to a fading smear of white and green.

And him... the man I didn’t mean to love—now just part of the landscape I’m leaving behind.

I keep my face turned to the window all the way to Anchorage, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from sobbing. No one speaks to me as I move through the large airport, no one asks why my heart is in pieces. They just scan my boarding pass and wave me through.

It isn’t until I’m standing at my gate, waiting to board my flight to Orlando, that I unzip the front pouch of my suitcase, fishing around for the worn paperback I packed for the trip—and my fingers brush something unfamiliar. Something smooth. Solid. Not a book.

A wooden box.

I drag it out, my breath catching when I open the box and recognize the carving.

It’s a tree. Not just any tree—the one right outside his cabin.

Its silhouette is etched with such delicate precision that I can almost see the snow gathered on its branches, feel the bite of winter air, hear the crunch of boots in the snow beneath it.

It’s our tree—the beginning, the middle, and the end.

My heart stutters. I run my fingers over the etched bark, and then I see it. Tiny, nearly hidden.

G + T

My knees give out, and I collapse into the nearest chair like my body can no longer hold the weight of everything I feel.

I clutch the box to my chest, burying my face against the carved lid as if it might quiet the ache ripping through me.

The tears come fast and hard—ugly, gasping sobs that shake my shoulders and break whatever fragile composure I had left.

People glance over, some concerned, others curious.

I don't care. Let them stare. They didn’t love him. They didn’t leave him.

There’s nothing inside the box; just the carving of the tree. Just smooth cedar and the weight of everything I left behind. But it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever been given, andI cry the entire flight home.

Florida is hot and too bright. The heat clings to your skin without ever offering comfort.

The air smells like salt and sunscreen, not wood-smoke or pine.

There’s no flannel in the laundry basket, no rough-hewn bear carvings standing silent watch in the corners, no deep voice grumbling about stupid rom-coms. Just sterile brightness, sand instead of snow, and a silence that feels far too empty.

And me with the echo of a kiss I should’ve never walked away from.