Chapter 2 FIRE MAN IN MY DRIVEWAY

POV: Isabella "Bella" Frost First Person

I shove my gloves on so fast I almost tear one.

"That did not happen," I say, to no one, to myself, to the wolf that is definitely not listening. I turn my back on the man, yank my sleeve down, and count to three.

When I turn around, he is still there.

Of course he is still there.

He is leaning against his truck like he has nowhere better to be at midnight relaxed, arms folded, watching me the way you watch something genuinely interesting, not something frightening. That is already strange. People do not watch me like that. People watch me the way you watch a gas burner you left on nervous, ready to back away.

He is not backing away.

"The booking is real," he says, and holds out the papers again. "Ryder Callahan. Festival fire show. Two weeks, paid in full. The agency confirmed yesterday."

I take the papers. My gloved fingers leave no mark. I scan the top line once — Seventeen Frost Lane, outbuilding unit, December 9 through December 23 — and my stomach turns over completely.

The agency. My agency. The one I hired six months ago to help manage the estate and collect small rental income from the outbuilding, which I listed for short stays and then absolutely forgot about because I forget about most things that involve other people coming near me.

"The outbuilding has not been used in four years," I say.

"I figured. There was a spider the size of a sandwich in the doorway." He says this pleasantly, like it is useful information.

"You cannot stay here."

"You cannot refund a paid booking without the agency's approval." He tilts his head. "And I read the contract. Cancellations inside forty-eight hours of arrival are non-refundable." A pause. "I arrived forty minutes ago."

I hate that he read the contract.

I stare at him. He is patient about being stared at — the kind of patient that comes from spending time in genuinely dangerous places, where you learn that staying calm is not a personality trait, it is a survival tool. He works with fire. I remember that from the paperwork. Fire show. Wildfire fighter in the off-season. A man who runs toward burning things for a living.

Somehow that makes it worse that he is not scared of me.

"Fine," I say. The word costs me something. "Three rules."

He waits.

"Do not come to my house. Do not ask me questions. Leave on December twenty-third, not a day late."

He nods once, like these are reasonable terms. "Anything else?"

"Do not touch anything that has frost on it."

He looks at the wolf. He looks at me. He nods again, slower this time, like he is filing something away. Then he picks up his bag from the truck bed, and I walk him across the yard to the outbuilding in complete silence.

I unlock the door. I do not go in. I hand him the key.

"Thank you," he says, like I did him a kindness. Like I had a choice.

I walk back to the main house without looking behind me. I do not want to see his face again tonight. I do not want to see the way he looks at things — open and unafraid — because I have spent twenty-two years understanding that the world works one specific way, and he is already making it feel uncertain.

I go inside. I lock the door. I stand at the kitchen window in the dark.

The outbuilding light turns on.

I press my hand flat against the glass. Frost spreads from my palm in a slow ring. The light in that little window is orange and warm and steady, and I watch it for longer than I should admit, because I have not seen that light on in four years. Not since the last tenant left in a hurry after I accidentally froze the outdoor faucet solid during a bad week.

Someone is in there now. Someone who is not afraid.

I pull my hand off the window, go to bed, and tell myself firmly that I do not care.

I do not sleep.

I am aware of the light all night — not because I keep checking, I tell myself, but because it is there. Existing. On my property. An eleven-day silence broken by one man who reads contracts and is unfazed by glowing hands.

By five in the morning, I give up pretending and go downstairs.

I open the back door.

On the porch railing, where I always set my tea, sits a mug I do not own. Ceramic, dark blue, still steaming in the cold air. Tucked under it is a scrap of paper.

I pick up the note.

Three words, written in heavy, slanted handwriting:

You looked like you needed this. — R

I stare at it. My throat does something uncomfortable.

Eleven days. That is how long it has been since I spoke to another person. Not because I was busy. Because there was nobody. Because there is never anybody, and I stopped expecting there to be.

And this man — who arrived at midnight, who watched my hands glow and did not flinch, who read a contract and cited it calmly in my own yard — made me coffee before sunrise because I looked like I needed it.

I pick up the mug.

It is the exact right temperature. Not too hot. Just warm enough.

I stand on my own porch in the cold dawn and drink it. My gloves are still on. My chest feels strange — tight and open at the same time, like a window that has been painted shut for years and someone has finally found the latch.

I do not know what to do with that.

I do not know what to do with any of this.

I look across the yard. The outbuilding light is still on. And through the small window I can see a shadow moving Ryder, already awake, already doing something with his hands. Steady. Purposeful.

I watch him for exactly four seconds before I stop myself.

I go back inside. I wash the mug. I set it on the counter.

I do not put it away.

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