Chapter Twenty One
The cold did not break.
In the days that followed, the new rhythm of our existence settled into the floorboards of the clubhouse like a stubborn winter frost. I had wanted space, and Jake—with the absolute, quiet discipline of a man who knew how to survive in the worst conditions—gave me exactly what I asked for. He matched my energy, step for step, block for block, until the silence between us felt like a thick concrete wall.
Every morning, I woke up in my small, drafty room at the end of the guest wing. There was no smell of cedar, no heavy black hoodies resting on the edge of the mattress, and no quiet, watchful presence sitting at the desk to make the room feel safe. The air was thin and smelled of old pine cleaner and dust. I would wrap my hands—now fully healed,
