Alpine Embrace

Chapter 12

I was awake before it happened. I was lying in the crook of Jaxon’s arm, watching the dust motes dance in the shaft of sunlight filtering through the clerestory windows. The fire had died down to ash, but the heat from his body was a steady, furnace-like presence.

I was tracing the line of a tattoo on his bicep—a compass rose, faded and black—thinking about the kiss.

It had been... earth-shattering. It wasn't just a kiss; it was a conversation. It was a confession.

I want this, I thought, the realization settling in my chest like a heavy stone. I want the grumpiness. I want the dad jokes. I want the baggage.

Then, the noise started.

It began as a vibration in the floorboards. A deep, mechanical thrumming that grew louder, and louder, until it turned into a violent SCRAPE. Metal on asphalt.

Jaxon bolted upright, nearly knocking me off the mattress.

"What?" he barked, his eyes wild, sleep-tousled and confused.

"Shh," I whispered, sitting up and clutching the blanket. "Listen."

GRIND. RUMBLE. BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.

The sound of heavy machinery reversing.

Jaxon’s shoulders slumped. The tension didn't leave him; it just changed flavor. It went from 'fight or flight' to resignation.

"The plow," he said, his voice flat.

"They made it up the pass," I said. My heart sank. I should have been relieved. I was rescued. I was safe.

Instead, I felt like someone had just announced a funeral.

"I have to go check the driveway," Jaxon said. He threw the covers off, exposing us both to the chill of the room. The intimacy of the morning evaporated instantly.

He didn't look at me. He grabbed his jeans from the floor and pulled them on, his movements jerky and fast.

"Jaxon," I said.

He paused, one boot in his hand.

"The road is open," he said, not meeting my eyes. "The rescue crews will be right behind them. Emergency services."

"That's... good," I said weakly. "Right?"

"Yeah," he said. "It's good. It means you can get out. You can get back to your life."

He pulled the boot on, stomped his heel down, and walked out of the fort without looking back.

I sat there in the nest of blankets, under the paper stars that suddenly looked flimsy and childish in the morning light.

Back to my life.

My life was a suitcase, a maxed-out credit card, and a cheating ex-boyfriend in Paris. My life was nothing.

Suddenly, a loud CLICK-HUMMM reverberated through the house.

The refrigerator roared to life. The dishwasher beeped a cheerful melody. The heating vents blasted a gust of air.

And then, the lights came on.

FLASH.

The recessed lighting in the vaulted ceiling, dozens of high-wattage bulbs, flooded the room with blinding, artificial brightness.

I squeezed my eyes shut, shielding my face.

It was aggressive. It was revealing.

When I opened my eyes, the magic was gone.

The blanket fort wasn't a cozy sanctuary; it was a pile of messy furniture in the middle of a disaster zone. The paper snowflakes looked jagged and taped haphazardly. The floor was covered in ash and dust. The charcoal drawing of the bear was smudged.

And I looked... terrible. My hair was a bird's nest. I was wearing dirty sweatpants. I looked exactly like what I was: a squatter.

"No," I whispered. "Not yet."

But the house didn't care. The furnace roared, drowning out the silence we had cultivated so carefully.

Mia sat up, rubbing her eyes against the glare.

"Too bright," she whined. "Turn off the sun."

"It's the lights, peanut," I said, forcing a cheerful tone as I climbed out of the blankets. "The power is back. The magic spell is broken."

"I liked the dark better," she grumbled, pulling the duvet over her head.

"Me too," I whispered.

I spent the next hour frantically trying to restore order. I felt exposed. I felt like the clutter was a physical manifestation of my intrusion into Jaxon’s life.

I took down the snowflakes. I untaped the paper lanterns from the camping lights. I folded the blankets. I tried to push the armchairs back into position, but they were too heavy.

I was sweeping ash from the hearth when the front door opened.

Jaxon walked in. He wasn't alone.

A man in a neon orange vest and thick work boots followed him. He looked like a giant carrot.

"Bonjour," the man boomed, his voice echoing in the high ceilings. "Tout va bien?"

"We're fine," Jaxon said in English. He looked at me. His face was unreadable again. The walls were back up, higher than before. "This is Ms. Burbank. The... guest."

"Guest," I repeated, feeling the word like a slap. Last night I was a light. Today I was a guest.

"Road is clear to the main highway," the orange man said, looking around the chaotic living room with raised eyebrows. "You had a little party, non?"

"Survival," Jaxon said curtly. "When can vehicles get down?"

"Now. But go slow. Is slippery."

"Thanks." Jaxon ushered the man out and closed the door.

The silence that followed was suffocating, despite the hum of the fridge.

Jaxon stood by the door, his hands in his pockets. He looked at the room. He saw the missing snowflakes. He saw the folded blankets.

"You took it down," he said.

"The power is back," I said, gripping the broom handle. "We don't need the lanterns anymore."

"Right."

He walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He stared at the contents for a long moment, then closed it without taking anything out.

"I can drive you," he said. "To the train station in Geneva. Or the airport. Whatever you need."

My heart hammered against my ribs. He was offering me a ride. He wasn't asking me to stay.

Of course he isn't, my inner critic sneered. He's a grieving widower with a kid and a broken house. You're a jobless chaos demon. The fantasy is over.

"The train station is fine," I said. My voice sounded hollow. "I... I should pack."

I walked past him. He didn't reach out. He didn't stop me.

I went to the guest wing, or what was left of it. I had to squeeze past the plywood barrier Jaxon had erected to get to the closet in the hallway where my bag had been stash before the roof collapse.

I grabbed my duffel bag. I shoved my sketchbook inside. I didn't look at the drawings. I couldn't bear to see the portrait of him, or the sketches of Mia. They felt like evidence of a crime I didn't mean to commit.

I showered and changed into my own clothes, my jeans, my sweater. I put on my coat. I looked in the mirror in the powder room.

I looked like Kelsea Burbank again. The Holiday Cynic. The girl who ran away.

I walked back out to the living room.

Mia was sitting on the sofa, eating dry cereal again. She saw my bag.

"Where are you going?" she asked, her spoon pausing halfway to her mouth.

"I have to go, peanut," I said, crouching down in front of her. "The snow is gone. The roads are open."

"But we didn't finish the dragon story," she said, her lower lip trembling. "And you didn't teach me how to draw the bear's other eye."

"You can draw it," I said, my throat tight. "You have the talent, Mia. You have the magic hands."

"Stay," she said. It was a command. A simple, six-year-old command.

I looked up. Jaxon was standing by the fireplace, watching us. His expression was tortured. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words were stuck behind three years of silence.

"I can't stay, sweetie," I said, turning back to Mia. "I have... work. And things."

"What things?"

"Just... things."

I stood up. I couldn't do this. If I stayed another minute, I was going to cry, and I refused to cry in front of the man who was letting me leave.

"Ready?" I asked Jaxon.

He nodded once. "Yeah. Let's go."

He grabbed his keys.

We walked out of the chalet. The sun was blinding. The snow was piled ten feet high on either side of the driveway, creating a white canyon. Jaxon’s massive black truck was idling, exhaust pumping into the crisp air.

I climbed into the passenger seat. The leather was cold.

Jaxon got in the driver's side. He put the truck in gear.

We rolled down the driveway, past the crushed trees, past the buried guest wing. I didn't look back at the house.

"So," Jaxon said, his grip on the steering wheel white-knuckled. "Where will you go? After the train station."

I looked out the window at the passing wall of snow.

"I don't know," I admitted. "Maybe back to Paris. Maybe London. I have a friend who has a couch."

"You don't have a plan?"

"I'm an artist, Jaxon," I said, forcing a bitter laugh. "We don't have plans. We have concepts."

He didn't laugh. He just stared at the road, his jaw set in that familiar, stubborn line.

We drove in silence for twenty minutes. The tension in the cab was thick enough to choke on. Every mile that passed felt like a physical tether stretching, thinning, ready to snap.

Say something, I begged him silently. Tell me not to go. Tell me you felt the spark too. Tell me the paper stars meant something.

But he didn't say a word.

And as the sign for the highway appeared ahead, the gateway back to the real world, I realized that the avalanche hadn't just crushed the house.

It had crushed the only chance I had at a happy ending.