Page 29 of Left Cold, Wolf Owned
In the dark, it had been close and pressing, the trees solid walls on either side, and nothing visible beyond the headlights. In the morning light, it opens up—the pines pulling back at the bends to reveal the valley below; the sky a pale clear blue that goes on further than a city sky ever does; and the road itself winding down through the terrain in long, unhurried curves thatLogan takes with easy confidence, probably from having driven this particular road a thousand times.
I watch it all with the window cracked two inches, the cold mountain air moving through, and feel something I haven't felt in a long time settling into my chest.
Free.
Unscheduled. Moving through a morning with no agenda at the end of it, no event to manage, no version of myself I have to have assembled before I arrive somewhere. The road and the valley and the man beside me, who is perfectly comfortable with silence and somehow making the silence comfortable.
The small generalstore and diner share a building at the edge of a crossroads town about five minutes past the base of the mountain—the kind of place that has been exactly where it is for forty years and has no intention of changing. A hand-painted sign, red vinyl booths visible through the window, a parking lot with three other cars, and a pickup that looks older than I am.
Logan pulls in without asking, which means he already knew this was the stop, which I decide not to comment on.
"One stop first," I tell him, nodding toward the general store's side.
He looks at the store. Looks at me. Nods once, which is as much enthusiasm as Garrett would give the situation, and somehow feels like plenty.
Inside, it's the kind of general store that stocks everything without specializing in anything—work gear, basic groceries, and a small rack of clothing near the back that has no business being as useful as it turns out to be. I move through it with the focused efficiency of a woman who has been wearing borrowed clothes and has identified this as a solvable problem.
Logan stands near the entrance with his arms crossed, not hovering. He’s present, watching the room the way he watches every room.
The clothing rack is limited, but I find what I need—two pairs of dark jeans that are a reasonable cut, a few basic shirts, and then, at the end of the rack, a cream-colored knit sweater that is objectively the most expensive item in the store and also the one that looks most like something I would have reached for in my actual life. The kind of thing I would have found at a boutique in the city, worn to a weekend brunch, paired with good boots I no longer have.
I put it over my arm without deliberating.
Logan watches me approach the register with the sweater and the jeans and raises an eyebrow very slightly.
"That one's twice the price of everything else on that rack," he observes.
"I'm aware," I tell him.
"Just noting."
"Noted," I reply and hand it to the cashier.
I change in the store bathroom, fold Nora's clothes neatly into the canvas tote the cashier provides, and come out feeling like the version of myself I recognize. The real version. The one that existed before Dawson's world got its hands on it and decided what it should look like. The one who knows what she likes and picks the best thing on the rack without apologizing for it.
Logan looks at me when I come out. He holds whatever crosses his face to himself, and holds the door open.
"Better?" he asks.
"Significantly," I tell him.
We go next door to the diner.
Inside, it's warm and smells like coffee and something involving butter, and a woman behind the counter looks upand nods at us with the unhurried acknowledgment as if she has been working this counter long enough that two strangers constitute a normal Tuesday.
We slide into a booth by the window. Logan sits with his back to the wall, facing the door, which I notice but don't remark on. I pick up the laminated menu and look at it for approximately four seconds before deciding.
"You already know what you want," Logan observes.
"I always know what I want. I merely sometimes let other people think I'm deliberating so they feel involved in the process."
He looks at me across the table. "That's either very considerate or slightly manipulative."
"Both," I tell him. "Depending on the day."
The food arrives quickly—eggs and toast for me, something significantly more substantial for Logan, which tracks—and we eat with the easy quiet of people who have gotten comfortable in each other's silences. Outside the window, the small town goes about its morning, unhurried and unconcerned with us, which feels exactly right.
I'm on my second coffee when I notice it.
