Updated Mar 21, 2026 • ~6 min read
Day three of the blizzard.
Iris wakes determined.
Today, she’s going to prove she’s not completely useless.
She’ll chop firewood. Independently. Without Beck’s help.
How hard can it be?
Very hard. Apparently.
The axe is heavier than it looks.
The wood doesn’t split the way it does in movies.
And her hands blister after three attempts.
“This is ridiculous.”
She tries again. Puts her whole body into the swing.
The axe bounces off. Nearly hits her foot.
“Okay. New plan. No firewood chopping.”
She’ll do something else. Something that doesn’t risk amputation.
Clean the cabin. Organize. Make herself useful.
She finds cleaning supplies under the sink.
Starts scrubbing.
The cabin is already pretty clean. But she needs to do something.
Needs to feel competent at least one task.
By noon, the cabin is spotless.
And Iris is bored.
And cold.
The temperature is dropping again.
The water stops running at two PM.
Iris turns the tap. Nothing comes out.
“No. Please. Not the pipes.”
She checks under the sink. Follows Beck’s earlier instructions.
But she doesn’t know what she’s looking for.
The pipes are frozen.
Which means no water. No toilet. No washing.
She’s going to have to ask Beck for help.
Again.
The humiliation is overwhelming.
She trudges through snow to his cabin.
It takes twenty minutes. The snow is thigh-deep.
Her jeans are soaked. Her boots inadequate.
By the time she reaches his door, she’s shivering.
She knocks.
Beck answers. Takes one look at her and sighs.
“Pipes froze.”
“How did you—”
“You’re here. That’s how. Come in before you get frostbite.”
His cabin is warm. Small. Aggressively masculine.
One room. Bed in the corner. Woodstove burning hot. Minimal furniture.
But clean. Organized. Lived-in.
“Sit by the fire. Warm up.”
She does.
Beck pulls off her wet boots. Hands her dry socks.
“You walked here in jeans? Are you trying to die?”
“I don’t have proper winter clothes!”
“It’s Montana. You need winter clothes.”
“I wasn’t planning to stay!”
“Plans change. Adapt.”
He’s making coffee. Hands her a mug.
It’s perfect. Strong. Hot.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll fix your pipes. But they’ll freeze again tonight. You should stay here until the temperature stabilizes.”
“Stay here? With you?”
“Got a better option?”
She doesn’t.
“I can’t impose—”
“You’ll freeze. That’s not imposing. That’s survival.”
He’s already gathering tools. Pulling on his coat.
“I’ll be back in an hour. Don’t touch anything.”
He leaves.
And Iris sits in his cabin.
Alone with his things.
It feels intrusive. Intimate.
She looks around carefully.
No personal photos. No decorations. Nothing revealing.
Except one thing.
A photo on the nightstand.
Beck and a woman. Both smiling. Mountains in background.
The woman is beautiful. Blonde. Outdoorsy. Everything Iris isn’t.
Is this his girlfriend? Wife?
Ex-wife?
Why does Iris care?
She doesn’t. Obviously.
She’s just curious.
That’s all.
Beck returns an hour later. Soaked. Exhausted.
“Pipes are thawed. I insulated them. Should hold for a few days.”
“Thank you. Really. I’m sorry I keep—”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not. I keep needing rescue. I’m the damsel in distress cliché.”
Beck almost smiles. Almost.
“You’re not a damsel. You’re just unprepared. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Damsels are helpless. You’re stubborn and proud. That’s fixable.”
“Was that a compliment?”
“It was an observation.”
He starts making food. Doesn’t ask if she wants any.
Just cooks for two.
“Who’s the woman?” Iris asks. “In the photo?”
Beck tenses.
“Anna. My fiancée. She died five years ago.”
“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s fine. Just a photo.”
It’s clearly not just a photo.
But Iris doesn’t push.
They eat in silence.
Chili. Made from scratch. Delicious.
“You’re a good cook,” Iris says.
“Living alone, you learn. Or you starve.”
“How long have you been alone?”
“Five years. Since Anna.”
“That’s a long time.”
“It is.”
“Don’t you get lonely?”
Beck looks at her. Really looks.
“Every day.”
The honesty surprises her.
“Then why stay? Why not move somewhere less isolated?”
“Because the city reminds me of her. The mountains don’t. Here, I can exist without remembering constantly.”
Iris understands that.
Running from memory. From pain.
“Margaret did the same thing,” she says quietly. “Ran from Seattle. From family drama. Found peace here.”
“She did. Took her a while. But she found it.”
“Did you know her well?”
“Well enough. She was kind. Didn’t pry. Didn’t expect conversation. Just… existed next to me. That was enough.”
It’s the most Beck’s said at once.
“She wrote about you. In her journals. Called you family.”
Beck’s expression softens.
“She was the closest I had to family up here. When she died… it was hard.”
“I’m sorry I never visited her. While she was alive. I should have—”
“Can’t change the past. Only the present.”
Simple wisdom. But true.
Iris stays at Beck’s cabin that night.
He offers his bed. Takes the floor.
“I can’t take your bed—”
“You’re taking it. Not negotiable.”
She’s too tired to argue.
The bed smells like pine and woodsmoke. Masculine. Comforting.
She falls asleep faster than expected.
Dreams about mountains. Snow. A grumpy man with kind eyes.
Morning.
Iris wakes to the smell of coffee and bacon.
Beck’s cooking breakfast.
“Morning,” he says. Not quite friendly. But not hostile either.
“Morning.”
They eat together. Comfortable silence.
It’s nice. Domestic.
Weird. But nice.
“Storm’s supposed to break today,” Beck says. “Roads should clear in a few days.”
“Then I can leave.”
“You can.”
He doesn’t sound happy about it.
Neither is she.
Which is confusing.
She wants to leave. Wants to get back to her life.
Doesn’t she?
Beck walks her back to Margaret’s cabin.
Through deep snow. Making sure she’s safe.
At her door, he pauses.
“You did okay. For a city girl.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
He almost smiles again.
Then catches himself.
“I’ll check on you later. Make sure the pipes hold.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.”
But he will anyway.
Because that’s who Beck is.
Grumpy. Reluctant. But reliable.
He walks away through snow.
And Iris watches him go.
Thinking thoughts she shouldn’t.
About a man she barely knows.
In a place she doesn’t belong.
For a future she isn’t planning.
But thinking them anyway.
Because apparently, three days in the mountains makes you irrational.
That’s the only explanation.
Right?
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