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8

SADIE

M aggie’s headstone is simple. Smooth granite, a little weather-worn now, set just back from the spruce line where the snow always melts slower. It doesn’t say much—just her name, a dash of dates, and a line she used to say every time I doubted myself: Make good things, anyway.

I stand there with icy fingers shoved deep in my coat pockets, breath ghosting in the morning air, heart still echoing from Zeke’s kiss the night before.

I haven’t been here in months. Not since the first note. Not since I started counting shadows again and checking locks twice, sometimes three times, before going to bed.

I swallow hard and drop to a crouch, brushing away a few pine needles that have settled near the base of the stone.

“Hey, Maggie.” My voice comes out quiet, a little hoarse. “Sorry, it’s been a while.”

There’s no one else out here. No wind, no birds. Just the trees creaking under old snow and the heaviness in my chest that doesn’t seem to go away anymore.

“I should’ve come sooner. I just… I didn’t want to bring this here. But you’d see through it anyway, wouldn’t you?” My laugh is brittle. “I’m scared. Again.”

I blink hard, eyes burning even as the cold bites at my skin. “It’s happening all over. The notes, the watching, the waiting for something to snap. I told myself I left that behind in Anchorage. I convinced myself that I had moved on from being the kind of woman who flinches every time a car door slams. But I’m not. I thought I could build something safe here. Quiet. But the quiet isn’t safe anymore, Maggie. It’s just silent.”

My throat tightens as I sit back on my heels. “And Zeke…”

His name alone makes something twist low in my stomach. Last night comes back in sharp pieces—his hand at my jaw, the heat of his mouth on mine, the way he kissed me like it wasn’t a question. Like he already knew the answer. Like he’d waited long enough.

“I don’t know what to do with him,” I whisper. “He’s… different. He doesn’t crowd me. He doesn’t pull. He just stands there like a goddamn mountain and waits for me to decide. And that should make it easier, right? But it doesn’t. Because I think if I fall for him, it’s going to be real. And if it’s real, I don’t know if I’ll survive losing it.”

I reach up, rub the heel of my hand against my chest like I can ease the pressure there. It doesn’t help. Not when the past still lingers like smoke in my lungs.

The flashback hits hard, fast. Not a memory, exactly. More like muscle-deep recall. The kind that pulls breath from your body before your brain catches up.

* * *

Anchorage, Alaska

Four Years Ago

Brent’s voice was calm. It always was. That’s what made it so easy for people to believe him. He didn’t shout. He didn’t throw things. He just… shifted the temperature in a room with a look.

“You can’t keep talking to me like that,” I’d said, crossing my arms tight, trying to hold my ground.

Brent didn’t raise his voice. He never had to. “You think I don’t know what’s best for us? For you?”

“I’m not a child…”

“Then stop acting like one.” He stepped forward, and I remember the way his shadow fell across my feet. “You run your mouth too freely, Sadie. One day, someone’s going to shut it for you. And I won’t stop them.”

He said it with a smile. He kissed my cheek after. And I remember thinking—he didn’t hit you, so it doesn’t count. He didn’t leave a bruise, so you can’t call it abuse.

I believed that for too long.

Now, back at Maggie’s grave, I press my forehead against my knees. Let the cold soak into my bones. Let the truth settle without flinching.

Zeke’s not like him. I know that. Every part of me knows that. He doesn’t make me small. He makes the world feel bigger—like there’s room to breathe again. And that’s what terrifies me. Because if he’s real, then I don’t get to pretend anymore. I don’t get to keep hiding behind flour and early mornings and the lie that I’m fine on my own.

“I think I’m falling for him,” I say to the granite. “And I don’t know how to do that without losing something of myself.”

The wind picks up again. Just a breath of it, but enough to remind me I can’t stay out here forever. I rise slowly, knees stiff from the cold, and press my hand to the top of the headstone.

“Keep an eye on me,” I whisper. “Because I think everything’s about to change.”

I head back to town with my coat zipped high and my scarf pulled tight, but none of it keeps out the warmth rising in my chest—or the chill of what might come next.

Because falling in love with Zeke MacAllister doesn’t feel like a decision. It feels like fate.

* * *

The café is still dark when I unlock the back door. The scent of cinnamon, coffee, and baked sugar hits me the second I step inside—comforting and grounding, even though the ovens haven’t been turned on yet. I kick off the frost from my boots, shrug out of my coat, and hang it on the hook by the pantry. My hands are still cold from the walk back from the cemetery, but the burn in my chest hasn’t dulled. If anything, it’s sharper now. Louder.

I don’t turn the lights on in the kitchen. There’s just enough glow from the early morning outside to see my way around. I reach for a mixing bowl, pull the flour bin closer, and try to lose myself in routine. Routine has always been safer than thinking. But it’s no good today.

Because Zeke is already here. I feel him before I see him—stillness at the edge of the room, weight pressing into the air like gravity has a favorite. I glance toward the stairs that lead up to his apartment above the café. He’s leaning against the wall near the dry storage shelf, arms crossed, gaze locked on me.

“You walk back from the cemetery alone?” he asks, voice low and even.

I swallow, fingers tightening on the rim of the bowl. “You’re watching me again?”

“Always,” he corrects. “And I’m not apologizing for it.”

I set the bowl down with a little more force than necessary, flour dusting the air between us. “I needed space.”

“You needed distance,” he says, pushing off the wall and crossing toward me with that slow, controlled pace that makes everything inside me coil tight. “Not silence. And not another lie.”

I freeze. “What lie?”

Zeke stops just short of touching me. His eyes don’t soften. They sharpen. “The man who grabbed you. You said he was a stranger.”

I look down, heart pounding like it’s trying to leap out of my chest. “He… he didn’t hurt me.”

“That’s not the point, Sadie.”

Though his voice isn’t raised, it’s sharp. Not in anger. In clarity. In truth. He’s not trying to scare me. He’s trying to pull me out of whatever corner I’ve backed myself into.

I wrap my arms around my middle and lean against the prep table. “His name’s Adam.”

Zeke stays quiet, giving me the space I’ve never asked for out loud but always hoped for deep down.

I keep going. “He’s Brent’s cousin. He used to come around sometimes. He was always... too friendly. The kind of guy who’d hug too long or make comments that sounded like compliments until you actually listened to the words.”

Zeke’s jaw tightens.

I press forward. “When I finally told Brent I was leaving, Adam started showing up more. Brent said he just wanted someone to check in, make sure I wasn’t doing anything ‘impulsive.’” I give a hollow laugh. “Impulsive meaning thinking for myself. Talking to people who weren’t him.”

Zeke steps closer, hand resting lightly on the edge of the counter beside me. Not touching, just anchoring. “So Adam came to Glacier Hollow to remind you that you’re still being watched.”

“I don’t know that for sure,” I say, but it’s weak. And we both know it.

Zeke studies me. “You didn’t report it.”

“I couldn’t prove it was him. No name, no plates. And I thought maybe... maybe if I didn’t acknowledge it, it would stop.” I pause, voice quieter. “I didn’t want to need help. I didn’t want to be the woman people whispered about, the one who brought her baggage into town and expected everyone else to carry it.”

His voice goes softer but somehow firmer too. “You’re not a burden.”

“I am to myself,” I say, honest and exhausted. “Every time I feel safe again, something shifts. And it’s like I’m back in that apartment, waiting for the next controlled sentence or slammed drawer or check-in that isn’t really a check-in.”

Zeke exhales slowly, the heat of it brushing across my cheek before he leans in. His hand comes up, thumb brushing along my jaw. Gentle. Commanding. “You should’ve told me, Sadie.”

“I know.”

“I will not ask you again next time.”

“I know that too.”

He steps even closer now, our bodies inches apart, the air between us burning hotter than the ovens ever get. “I can handle this,” he says. “But I need to know what I’m up against. No more half-truths. Not when it comes to you.”

His hand slides to the back of my neck, the pressure firm enough to anchor me but never forceful. My breath catches, heart thundering against my ribs like it’s trying to answer before my mouth can.

I nod, slowly. “Okay.”

Zeke studies me a beat longer, eyes scanning every inch of my face like he’s committing it to memory.

“Good,” he says quietly. “Because I’m not letting this go.”

And for the first time, I think I’m done pretending I want him to.

Zeke doesn’t move for a long second after I say it. After I give him the truth in pieces, jagged and trembling. He just watches me, and I swear the air goes still between us. I expect something—questions, anger, some kind of reaction that will make this harder. But he doesn’t give me that. He doesn’t flinch or tighten or pace the way Brent used to when things didn’t go his way.

Instead, he says nothing.

Then, softly, like a vow carved in stone, “He won’t come back.”

It’s not dramatic. Not loud. Just absolute.

Something in me cracks open. I don’t mean to break. Not here. Not in front of him. But the words hit harder than I expect. Not because I doubt him. But because I believe him. Because he says it like it’s already settled. Like this war I’ve been fighting in my head, bracing for in my bones, has already ended and I just didn’t know it yet.

My eyes burn, and I blink fast, but it’s no use. The breath I try to draw in gets stuck halfway, and suddenly I’m not standing on my own anymore.

Zeke moves before I can fall apart completely. He steps in, wraps one brawny arm around my shoulders, the other hand flat and steady on the small of my back. And that’s it. No speeches. No reassurances. Just heat and strength and the scent of cedar and smoke that always clings to him like the past isn’t something he outran—it’s something he buried.

I curl into him before I can think better of it. My forehead presses against his chest, the fabric of his shirt soft against my skin, and I breathe him in like I’m starving for air. His heartbeat is steady beneath my cheek, calm in a way mine isn’t. Not yet.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper against him. “I didn’t mean to dump all of that on you this morning.”

He doesn’t answer. Just tightens his hold. One hand comes up, slides through my hair, not to fix anything—just to remind me he’s here.

And I let myself stay there. Just for a minute. Maybe two.

It’s too long. It’s not long enough.

This is the part I usually run from—the part where needing someone turns into leaning on them, even just for a moment. I’ve been doing everything alone for so long it’s fused into my bones. But Zeke doesn’t feel like a crutch. He feels like a wall. Solid. Built for weathering storms as if he was made to hold the line.

And right now, I need that more than I want to admit.

His chin brushes the top of my head when he finally speaks again. “You don’t have to apologize for trusting me.”

I pull back slowly, breath catching on the edge of a sigh I don’t want to release. My hands still rest on his chest, and I can feel every breath he takes beneath my palms. Every beat of that calm, controlled heart.

“I don’t do this,” I say, quieter now. “Let people in.”

Zeke’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Then don’t waste it on someone who won’t carry the weight.”

God. That’s the thing with him. He says stuff like that and doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t dress it up. Doesn’t say it like it’s supposed to be romantic. Just says it, because it’s true. And it lands harder than anything sweet ever could.

I look at him for a second too long, then step back, needing space before I do something reckless—like pull him in again.

“I need to prep the next batch of rolls,” I say, trying to ground myself in routine again.

Zeke nods, but doesn’t leave. He just leans against the counter, watching me, eyes unreadable but not unkind. “I’ll stay until Jenny gets here.”

“You don’t have to.”

He just arches an eyebrow. “That was cute. Try again.”

I huff a breath, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. It’s small. Fragile. But real.

“Okay,” I say, turning back to the dough. “You can stay.”

His voice is lower when he answers. “I wasn’t asking for permission.”

My heart skips, then settles in my chest like it’s committing his words to memory.

We work in silence for a little while. I mix dough. He sips the coffee I hand him without asking. And the air between us hums with something heavy and hot and growing by the second.

There’s no music playing. No customers filtering in yet. Just the quiet clatter of bowls and the scratch of metal against ceramic as I shape the rolls. And Zeke’s presence, always there. Always steady.

When Jenny finally bursts through the front, late as usual and muttering something about a flat tire and a missing shoe, I almost jump. Zeke straightens and gives me a look before heading toward the back, probably to check the locks again even though I already told him I’d done it twice.

But just before he disappears through the door, he looks back. And what’s in his eyes is not the look of a man passing time.

It’s a warning. It’s a promise. It’s the storm before the wildfire, and for the first time since I arrived in Glacier Hollow, I think I might be ready to let it burn.