Riven said he needed to check out the cabin to make sure there were no unwelcome surprises, no threats hiding in the corners. We leave town in the morning, but he wanted to stop by the family cabin for the night. I know he’s eliminated anyone who would want to hurt me, so I figure he wants to surprise me with something, so I didn’t argue. Instead, I told him I’d walk down to the pond, just behind the trees. He didn’t fight me on it and just said he could see me from the front porch.

And now I’m here and the adrenaline of everything that’s happened today is finally wearing off. It almost doesn’t feel real. That he came back. That he chose me. My heart still hasn’t caught up. Part of me is waiting to wake up, to find out this is all some fever dream built from loneliness and desperation of missing him.

I spent the last few months preparing for the worst. I imagined him dead. I imagined him walking away. I imagined the hollow ache of never knowing what really happened to the only person who ever made me feel safe.

But he’s here. He’s real. And somehow, that’s even scarier than the empty ache.

The frozen pond glitters under the moonlight, surrounded by evergreens and the silence that I crave. It’s the kind of silence that sinks into your bones. It’s not eerie, just deep. Heavy.

I used to love this place. Back when everything made a little more sense. Back when Riven and Farmer Miller’s son would come out here after dinner, roughhousing with hockey sticks and no helmets, throwing punches and shoulder checks like they were destined for the pros. I’d sit on the bench with hot tea and my heart in my throat, pretending I was only there to make sure they didn’t end up doing anything dangerous.

But it was always him.

Even then, it was always just that I wanted to be close to Riven. I wrap my arms around myself and breathe in deep. I hear him before I see him. Boots crunching. A breath behind me. Then a soft thump as something lands in the snow beside me.

I glance down.

My old skates.

I turn, and there he is holding out his old brown jacket, the one I used to wear on nights like this. He’s holding it like it’s made of gold, because it really is.

“Looks like you found the perfect spot,” he says.

My throat tightens.

He helps me into the jacket, his fingers brushing my arms, steady and warm. Then he kneels and starts unlacing my boots like it’s his job to take care of me. Like nothing has changed between us.