Page 7

6

SADIE

I wake before the alarm. The sky outside is still black, the kind of quiet that settles over Glacier Hollow when the wind forgets to breathe. My fingers twitch under the blanket, and I know before I open my eyes that I’m not going back to sleep.

Zeke. That’s what fills my head first. Not cinnamon rolls. Not the checklist taped to the café fridge. Him. The way he stood beside me on the porch last night, arms crossed, calm and solid as stone. The way his voice wrapped around mine like a promise I didn’t want to need.

‘You’re not alone anymore.’

He might not have meant those words to stick. But they have. They echo now in the silence of my cottage, in the way my skin still feels too aware of his presence—even hours later.

I sit up slowly, stretch, and glance toward the front windows. The bay is still a blur of darkness and ice, but something else catches my eye. A shape, maybe. A shift. I freeze, breath held. Nothing moves.

I throw on a flannel shirt, thick socks, and a heavy cardigan, then step quietly into the kitchen. I don’t flip on the light. I don’t want to disturb whatever calm I’ve managed to hold onto. But I go straight to the back window—the one near the kitchen sink. The one that creaked the night before last.

I didn’t imagine it. I know I didn’t.

It takes me a few seconds to unbolt the door. The wind cuts sharply the second I crack it open. It bites into my skin and steals the warmth from under my sleeves, but I step out onto the back stoop, anyway.

At first, all I see is frost. The ground is a patchwork of grass and snow, crusted with ice that glints under the porch light. I scan slowly, careful not to miss anything. And then I see them… boot prints.

Faint, but there. A shallow arc in the patch of earth between my porch and the trees at the edge of my yard. Someone must have stepped there before the snow fell; the snow softened the edges but didn’t erase the pattern completely.

My pulse kicks up. Not a rush. Not a scream. Just that heavy thud in my chest, slow and loud and real. Someone was here. Last night. After Zeke left.

I grip the railing, my knuckles white against the wood. Part of me wants to run back inside, bolt the door, and pretend I didn’t see it. Pretend it was an animal. A trick of the light. But I know better. These aren’t paw prints or wind patterns. These are boots. Heavy. Male.

And I know what it means. Whoever left that note? They’re not done. They’re circling again. I square my shoulders, shake the cold from my arms, and head back inside.

There’s a part of me that wants to call Zeke immediately. But I don’t. Not yet. I’m not ready to hand this over. Not until I feel like I’m standing on my own two feet. I need to move. I need routine. Life for me here in Glacier Hollow has been relatively easy—Maggie’s death notwithstanding. I don’t want to fold at the first sign of trouble. If I do, I worry I will never be able to truly stand on my own.

I pull on my warmest, fur-lined boots, pull on my heavy coat and begin the walk down to the café. Once there, I enter the kitchen as silently as I can and turn on the lights, tie my apron around my waist, and pull the flour from the pantry. If I’m going to fall apart, it’s not going to be while I’m standing still.

I remind myself when the going gets tough, the tough bake.

I move like it matters—like the measuring and stirring and rolling of dough is going to keep me together. Butter melts into sugar. Dough turns to silk under my palms. The scent of cinnamon blooms through the kitchen. It’s too early for customers, too early for Jenny, but not too early for this.

I’m elbow-deep in scone dough when I hear footsteps above me. I freeze for half a breath, but then the creak of the floor tells me exactly who it is. Heavy. Controlled. Nothing frantic about it.

Zeke. The knot in my chest pulls tighter before it loosens.

He steps into the kitchen like he owns the air in it. Big frame filling the space at the bottom of the stairs. His hair is still damp from the shower, a black T-shirt stretched across his chest like a second skin. He doesn’t speak at first—just scans the space with those sharp, assessing eyes.

“I heard movement,” he says simply. His voice is low. Rasped with sleep, but already alert.

“I warned you. I need to start early,” I reply, hands still in the dough. “Besides, I couldn’t sleep.”

He watches me for a second longer than necessary, and I know he doesn’t buy it. But he doesn’t press—yet. I glance up at him. “I... heard something the last couple of nights. Near the window. I checked this morning and found prints.”

Zeke doesn’t move right away. His whole body goes still in that way he does when his brain goes tactical. Then he steps into the room, past the counter, past me, toward the back door.

“You should have called me,” he says. Not angry. Just matter-of-fact.

“I know.”

He turns, arms crossed over his chest. “Show me.”

“I don’t have time…”

He hands me my coat. “Make time.”

Realizing I have little choice in the matter, I wipe my hands, follow him out the door and allow him to help me into his official SUV and we drive back to the cottage. We get out and walk to the space beyond the back door, and I gesture toward the patch of ground. He steps closer, eyes scanning fast, dropping into a crouch like it’s second nature. He doesn’t say a word for a long moment.

Then he stands, helps me back into the SUV and climbs in behind the wheel. “Same tread as the alley last week. Same direction.”

My breath catches. “So it’s not random.”

“No.” He walks toward me again. “It’s targeted. Someone’s testing the perimeter. Watching patterns.”

I swallow hard. “Zeke... what if it’s more than a threat? What if they’re planning something worse?”

His eyes darken as he parks behind the café and helps me out. “Then they will be disappointed,” he said.

He steps closer. Close enough that I can feel the heat of his body as we head back into the café. Once inside, I look up at him, and it’s like the air shifts again. He doesn’t touch me—but I feel it, anyway.

“I’m done waiting for you to ask me for help,” he says, voice lower now.

I nod slowly. My pulse is beating so hard I can feel it in my throat. “Okay.”

He lifts a hand, brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. His touch is gentle, but there’s nothing soft in his expression as he nods and says, “You’re mine to protect now.”

I don’t flinch. I don’t argue. Because something in the way he says it makes me believe I actually am.

* * *

The bell over the café door jingles, sharp and clear, just as I’m sliding a tray of cinnamon rolls onto the counter. I don’t need to look up to know it’s him. Zeke’s footsteps don’t sound like anyone else’s. Steady. Measured. Like he walks with gravity instead of pace.

I feel him before I see him—heat behind my spine, attention like a pressure point. I straighten too fast, wiping my hands on a towel that’s already flour-streaked. When I finally lift my gaze, he’s already watching me. His eyes skim over my face like he’s scanning for damage.

“You came back for your cinnamon roll,” I say, keeping my voice light as I move to refill the coffee carafes and pour him a mug. “I was worried the town might devolve into chaos if you broke with your routine.”

Zeke crosses the room without answering. He doesn’t smile. He rarely does. But the corner of his mouth twitches like I’ve earned half a point. He leans against the back counter, arms crossed over his broad chest, gaze sharp.

The silence that settles between us isn’t passive—it’s strategic. He’s cataloging me. Waiting for the next crack. And somehow, that unnerves me more than if he were demanding answers.

The front door chimes again. A small cluster of regulars drifts in—Walter, Ada, Jenny’s boyfriend who always orders a muffin but never finishes it. I shift into gear, greeting each one, wiping counters, moving trays. Zeke stays near the back, watching but not hovering, like he’s there to take stock of who looks at me too long or talks too quietly.

I hate that it makes me feel... steady.

By ten, the café’s full, and I’ve lost count of the times I’ve brushed past Zeke behind the counter. He’s been pulling mugs, wiping tables, and even helped Jenny carry two loaded trays when the high school kids came in for a quick breakfast before school. He doesn’t act like he owns the place—but he makes it clear that if anything went wrong in here, it’d go through him first.

He’s all precision and economy of movement, and I’m too aware of him. The heat of his arm when I reach past him for a pan. The shift of muscle under his shirt when he lifts a crate of bottled drinks without asking. The way his eyes follow mine like he can feel every thought before I speak it.

I reach for a canister of flour on the shelf above the prep station and stretch up, standing on tiptoe to reach it. My balance wobbles just a second before I feel his hand on my lower back. Big, warm, steady.

“I’ve got it,” he says, voice close to my ear.

I freeze, caught between the safety of his hand and the way my pulse spikes. I should move. He reaches around me, brushes against my shoulder, and grabs the canister like it’s nothing. His arm brushes mine, firm and unhurried, and suddenly the entire kitchen feels about ten degrees warmer. I can smell him—clean soap, cedar, the faintest trace of coffee. He sets the flour down and doesn’t move away immediately.

“You always stock things where you can’t reach them?” he asks, eyes on mine.

“One of the occupational hazards of not being related to the Amazonian warriors,” I say, trying for casual. My voice comes out too soft.

He doesn’t tease. Just nods once. “Then maybe you need someone taller around more often.”

I can’t think of a single response that won’t sound like a confession, so I do what I’m best at—I pivot. I grab a whisk, move to the mixing bowl, start in on the scone batter like it demands every cell of my attention.

But Zeke stays close. Not touching, not crowding—but present. Solid. Like a wall I didn’t know I’d leaned on until I stopped, pretending I didn’t need one.

Jenny flies in, grabbing another tray of baked goods and heading back to the front, tossing a wink in my direction as she catches Zeke watching me again.

“Need me to step out so you two can work that tension out over a bag of flour?” she mutters, low enough for only me to hear.

“Jenny,” I hiss, cheeks flaming.

“I’m just saying,” she says with a mischievous grin before disappearing through the café doors again.

I glance at Zeke. He didn’t hear her—probably. But the way his eyes flick back to mine a second later tells me he picked up something . I stir faster, heart pounding.

“Everything okay?” he asks, one eyebrow raised.

“Totally,” I say, voice too bright. “Just... scone math.”

He watches me stir as though he has already figured out the puzzle but is not finished playing with it.

“I’ve got to do a drive around the town. Let folks see I’m watching,” he says finally. “You need anything before I head out?”

A million things. Protection. Answers. A second of peace. I shake my head.

“No. I’m good.”

He doesn’t move. His hand comes to rest on the counter beside me—casual, but close. I stop whisking.

“You’re still lying,” he says, voice low, private. “And you know I’ll wait you out.”

My throat tightens. “I know.”

His eyes search mine for a beat longer, then he nods once and straightens. “Keep the back door locked. I’ll be back around noon. Call if anything feels off.”

I nod. “Zeke?—”

He pauses. I don’t finish the sentence. I don’t even know what I was going to say. He doesn’t need me to. He just looks at me like I already said enough. Then he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him with a quiet click that leaves the room colder than before.

The late-morning rush slows to a simmer just before eleven, and Jenny finally makes her way behind the counter with a refill pitcher in one hand and her phone in the other. Her messy ponytail hangs sideways, and powdered sugar dusts her apron, but her eyes are sharp and more alert than I usually see at this hour.

She plants herself beside the espresso machine and leans in. “So... did you see that guy out front last night?”

I pause mid-reach for a fresh mug. “What guy?”

She drops the voice a notch. “Creepy guy. Parked across the street in an old green pickup. Same truck I saw a few nights ago, around closing. Just... sitting there. No lights, no engine running, just watching.”

My pulse jerks, but I keep my tone even. “You sure he wasn’t waiting for someone at the bar across the street?”

Jenny snorts. “At nine thirty? With his headlights off? And no one got in or out for like twenty minutes? Nah. He was watching us. Watching you, probably.”

I force a chuckle. “Well, I’m not that interesting.”

Jenny gives me a look, the one that says she knows I’m full of it. She opens her mouth to say more, but just then, Zeke returns from his drive round town.

The second he steps through the door, the air changes. That fast, that tangible. Jenny notices it, too. She goes quiet and suddenly remembers she has a table waiting for fresh coffee.

Zeke crosses the room and stops in front of the counter; his body language is loose, but he locks his eyes on mine. He doesn’t say a word, just lifts a brow. A silent question.

I answer with a practiced smile, the kind I’ve given customers a thousand times over. “Everything’s fine.”

He doesn’t believe me. Of course he doesn’t. That stare of his could peel paint off a wall.

Still, he says nothing. Not here. Not now. He just nods once and moves to lean against the end of the counter, arms crossed, scanning the café like a predator watching over his territory. The man spends more time in my café than he does in his office.

The rest of the shift crawls by. Zeke lingers. Doesn’t hover—but doesn’t leave, either. When he goes back upstairs, I catch myself watching the stairs for too long after his boots disappear.

By eight, the café is mostly empty. The dinner crowd has almost cleared out. Jenny’s already packing up for the day, and I’ve retreated into the back kitchen under the excuse of prepping tomorrow’s pastries. I press my fingers to my temples, trying to quiet the static.

When I step outside to catch a breath, the wind bites harder. It cuts through my jacket like it has something to prove. I scan the alley instinctively, half expecting to see a dark shape tucked between parked cars. But there’s nothing. Not tonight.

Still, when I look up, I spot him. Zeke at the end of the alley shrouded in shadow. How the hell did he get there? The last time I saw him he was going up to his place over the café. His arms are crossed, and his head is down like he’s checking something on his phone—but I know better. He’s watching. Not lurking. Not hiding. Just there .

That night, I close up fast. Lights off. Windows locked. Trash taken out in under three minutes. When I turn the key in the door, he’s already beside me, silent as always. I don’t startle anymore. I don’t need to ask what he’s doing here. I know.

We walk in silence. The kind that doesn’t feel empty. The kind that feels like everything matters too much to speak aloud.

The sky’s a muted blue-black, clouds moving like smoke across the moon. My boots crunch over frozen gravel, and his steps fall in rhythm with mine. There’s no space between us. Not really. Even when there is, it hums with potential. With pressure. With something that’s building, always building.

“You want me to sweep the house again?” he asks as we step onto my porch.

I hesitate. “No, I made sure everything was locked up tight when I left this morning.”

He doesn’t argue. But he doesn’t move away either. I turn to face him. He’s close enough that I can see the faint line of stubble on his jaw, the way the porch light glints off the edges of his collar. His eyes are darker now, like they’re carrying something he’s not saying. Something he won’t until I ask.

“I don’t want to need you this much,” I blurt out without thinking.

He lifts a hand and tips my chin up with just two fingers. Firm. Gentle. Decisive.

“You need me, Sadie,” he says, voice low. “And I’m not going anywhere. So stop treating that like it’s a burden.”

My breath catches. The porch disappears. The cold disappears. There’s just him. Just us. And that weight in the air we’ve been circling for days.

Zeke steps in, slow but sure, like he knows I won’t pull back. His hand slides to the curve of my jaw. Warm. Commanding. His lips hover just above mine. Not touching. Not yet.

My pulse hammers in my throat. Everything in me wants to lean in. Close the distance. But I don’t.

I press my hand gently to his chest. Not a push. Just... a pause.

“I can’t,” I whisper. “Not yet.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t sigh or retreat. He just nods once and stays right where he is, eyes locked on mine. His voice is a rasp when he speaks again.

“I can wait. But I won’t wait forever.”

And that should scare me, but... it thrills me. He steps back. Just enough. His eyes still hold mine, like he’s daring me to look away first. I don’t.

“Lock both bolts,” he says, nodding toward the door.

I nod.

He waits until the lock clicks into place before he turns and walks into the dark. No words. No goodbye. But everything about him says soon, and that’s exactly the problem.

Because for the first time in years... I want soon.