Page 22 of Mountain Men on Ice

“That’s the bar? Don’t make it worse?”

“It’s the bar tonight. We can aim higher another time.”

He pulls back from my hands. “Yeah. Another time.”

My heart knocks once, hard. “Come back to bed,” I say. “We need to get warm”

He nods like his neck hurts. “You go. I’ll make sure it holds.”

I hesitate—his posture is wrong, not coiled to spring but folded to break. The old instinct rises to smooth, to fix. I swallow it.

“Okay,” I say, because I can’t be the only one choosing us. “Don’t be long.”

I leave him in firelight staring at the plastic-covered window. I crawl into his bed because it smells like him and I want that to be enough.

It isn’t.

I wake to pale gray and silence. The wind is long gone. The space beside me cold.

The suitcase by the door is packed—his duffel zipped, his hoodie is neatly folded on top. I find him in the kitchen, his hair damp from a shower, his eyes not quite meeting mine.

“Morning,” I say, because if I don’t say something normal I might break something that isn’t.

“Morning.”

“You were up early.”

“Window needed a second pass.” He nods toward it—layers tighter, edges tidy, floor clean, towels folded into a stack that’ll never be the same color again.

“Thank you.”

He nods once. “Road should be passable by noon. I called a car.”

Finally he looks at me; it’s his face but not—press-conference blank. “We should get back to Seattle. I’ll finish rehab with the staff.”

We—but he means he. I’m nowhere in that sentence.

“Right. Of course.” My voice scrapes. “You didn’t have to pack for me.”

“I didn’t,” he says—then flinches at how it sounds. “I mean—there’s time. You can hang out here and maybe get more work done without me getting in the way. If you want to⁠—”

“Finish my EP?” I try to laugh. It comes out wrong. “Play coffee shops?”

He looks away. “This is the right move.”

“For your knee,” I say.

“For everything.” He sets his mug down very gently, like louder would shatter us. “We can’t—” He stops. Shakes his head. “It’s better if⁠—”

I fold my arms so I don’t touch him, because I won’t beg. “Okay,” I say, tilting. “Thanks for the heads up.”

“Stevie—”

“No.” If he says my name like that, I’ll agree to anything. “You’re right. It’s smarter if we say good-bye here. But, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll leave too.”

In the bedroom I pack mechanically. It’s ridiculous that it hurts this much after days. Ridiculous and real. In the mirror, the tiny notes under my ribs, a reminder of beginnings.

Now I know how it ends.