Updated Mar 21, 2026 • ~8 min read
Thanksgiving week arrives.
Iris hasn’t thought about it until Beck mentions it.
“You have plans for Thursday?”
“Thanksgiving? No. I usually go to Skye’s. But I’m here.”
“You could still go. Roads are clear.”
He’s right. She could leave. Drive to Seattle. Spend the holiday with friends.
Come back after.
Or not come back at all.
The thought makes her chest tight.
“I think I’ll stay. Have a quiet day here.”
Beck nods. Doesn’t comment.
Then, casually: “You could come to my place. If you want. I’m cooking anyway.”
It’s not quite an invitation.
More like a suggestion.
An opening.
“You’re cooking Thanksgiving dinner? Alone?”
“I do every year.”
“That’s depressing.”
“It’s routine.”
“Still depressing.”
He almost smiles.
“So is that a yes?”
“It’s a yes.”
Thanksgiving morning.
Iris wakes early. Anxious.
She’s spending the holiday with Beck.
Just the two of them.
In his cabin.
This feels significant.
Intimate.
She tries not to overthink it.
Fails completely.
She shows up at noon with wine and a pie.
Store-bought pie. She’s not Margaret-level domestic yet.
Beck opens the door.
And Iris stops breathing.
He’s dressed nicely. Button-down shirt. Dark jeans. Clean-shaven.
She’s never seen him clean-shaven.
He’s devastating.
“Hi,” she manages.
“Hi. Come in.”
His cabin smells incredible.
Turkey. Herbs. Fresh bread.
“You made bread?”
“Seemed appropriate for Thanksgiving.”
“You’re showing off.”
“Maybe a little.”
He’s smiling.
Actually smiling.
Not almost. Actually.
Iris is in so much trouble.
The kitchen is small.
They navigate around each other.
Beck cooking. Iris trying to help.
She offers to make mashed potatoes.
Burns them.
“How do you burn mashed potatoes?” Beck asks, amused.
“Talent. Pure talent.”
He rescues the potatoes. Teaches her the proper method.
Butter. Cream. Salt. Don’t walk away from the stove.
“I’m a disaster in the kitchen.”
“You’re learning. There’s a difference.”
He’s patient. Thorough. A good teacher.
And standing very close.
Iris is hyperaware of his proximity.
The way he smells. Pine and smoke and something uniquely him.
The heat of his body beside hers.
The accidental brushes of hands as they work.
This is torture.
Sweet, domestic torture.
They eat at Beck’s small table.
Set properly. Candles lit. Almost fancy.
The food is perfect.
Iris tells him so.
“This is incredible. You could open a restaurant.”
“I prefer solitude.”
“Right. Forgot. Mountain hermit.”
“Exactly.”
But he’s smiling again.
They’re both smiling.
This feels normal.
Easy.
Like they’ve done this a hundred times.
Not like it’s their first Thanksgiving together.
First.
The word implies more will follow.
Will they?
Iris doesn’t know.
Tries not to hope.
“What are you thankful for?” Beck asks.
The traditional question.
Iris considers.
“Honestly? This. Being here. Finding Margaret’s letters. Understanding her choice. Learning to chop wood and track animals and appreciate silence.”
“That’s a lot.”
“It’s been a transformative few weeks.”
“And Seattle?”
“What about it?”
“Are you thankful for that? Your life there?”
Complicated question.
“I’m thankful for the opportunities. The career I built. The friends I made. But…”
“But?”
“But I’m not sure I was happy. Just busy. Distracted. Performing success without feeling it.”
Beck nods.
“I understand that.”
“What about you? What are you thankful for?”
He looks at her.
Directly. Intensely.
“I’m thankful you got stuck in that ditch.”
Her heart stops.
“Beck—”
“I mean it. If you hadn’t gotten stuck, I wouldn’t have met you. Wouldn’t have had a reason to check on Margaret’s cabin. Wouldn’t have had someone to talk to. To teach. To care about.”
“You would have been fine.”
“I would have been alone. There’s a difference.”
The air between them feels charged.
Electric.
Dangerous.
“I’m thankful too,” Iris admits. “For the ditch. For the blizzard. For all the disasters that kept me here long enough to see what I was missing.”
“And what were you missing?”
“This. Peace. Purpose. Connection. You.”
She said it.
Out loud.
Can’t take it back.
Beck’s expression shifts.
Softens.
“Iris—”
“I know. This is complicated. I’m supposed to leave. You’re not looking for this. We’re both running from things. But I can’t help how I feel.”
“How do you feel?”
Terrified. Hopeful. Falling.
“Like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
Beck stands.
Walks around the table.
Iris stands too.
They’re close.
So close.
He reaches up. Tucks hair behind her ear.
The gesture is gentle. Intimate.
“I haven’t wanted anyone since Anna. Didn’t think I could. But then you showed up. Stubborn and unprepared and completely out of place. And I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“Beck—”
“I know this is fast. Probably a bad idea. Proximity and isolation making us feel things that aren’t real. But it feels real.”
“It feels real to me too.”
He’s leaning in.
She’s leaning in.
This is happening.
Finally.
Their lips are inches apart.
Iris can feel his breath.
Then—
Beck pulls back.
Steps away.
“I can’t. I’m sorry. This is… it’s too much.”
The rejection stings.
“Too much?”
“Too soon. Too complicated. You’re leaving eventually. This will just make it harder.”
“What if I don’t leave?”
“You will. This place isn’t your life. I’m not your life. You have a whole world in Seattle. You can’t throw that away for some mountain fling.”
“It’s not a fling.”
“Isn’t it? We’ve known each other a month. One month. That’s not enough time to make life-changing decisions.”
He’s right.
Logically, he’s right.
But it feels wrong.
“I should go,” Iris says.
“You don’t have to—”
“I do. This is… I need space.”
She grabs her coat.
Beck doesn’t stop her.
Just watches her leave.
Looking miserable.
But not calling her back.
She walks home through snow.
Crying.
Angry.
Hurt.
Confused.
He said he cared.
He almost kissed her.
Then he pulled away.
Mixed signals don’t begin to cover it.
She gets to her cabin.
Slams the door.
Sits by the fire.
And cries.
This is why she doesn’t do relationships.
This is why she keeps things casual.
Because caring hurts.
Rejection hurts.
Hope hurts.
She should leave.
Pack up. Drive to Seattle. List the cabin remotely.
Forget Beck and his complicated grief and his mixed signals.
Move on.
That’s the smart choice.
The safe choice.
But Iris doesn’t want safe.
She wants Beck.
Wants this cabin.
Wants the life she’s building here.
Even if it scares her.
Even if he pushes her away.
She’s not running.
Not this time.
Her phone rings.
Skye.
“Happy Thanksgiving! How’s Montana?”
“Terrible.”
“What happened?”
“Beck almost kissed me. Then didn’t. Said it’s too complicated. Too soon. That I’m leaving anyway so what’s the point.”
“Oh honey.”
“I’m so stupid. I thought… I don’t know what I thought. That this was real. That we were building something.”
“Maybe you are. He’s just scared.”
“So am I! But I’m willing to try. He’s not.”
“He’s grieving. You know this. He lost his fiancée. Hasn’t been with anyone in five years. Of course he’s scared.”
“So what do I do?”
“Give him space. Let him process. Don’t run away just because it’s hard.”
“What if he never comes around?”
“Then you’ll know. But at least you won’t wonder what if.”
Skye’s wisdom is annoying.
Because she’s right.
“I hate this.”
“I know. Feelings suck. But they’re also the best part of being alive.”
“I’d rather be numb.”
“No you wouldn’t.”
She’s right about that too.
Iris spends the rest of Thanksgiving alone.
Eats pie for dinner.
Reads Margaret’s journals.
Finds an entry from Margaret’s first Thanksgiving in Montana:
Thanksgiving alone. Weird. Sad. But also… peaceful? No pressure to perform happiness. No family drama. No expectations. Just me, the mountains, and gratitude for the choice I made. It’s lonely. But it’s mine. And that’s enough.
Iris understands.
This Thanksgiving is lonely.
But it’s hers.
Her choice to be here.
Her choice to stay.
Her choice to feel everything instead of running.
And that’s enough.
For now.
Later that night, there’s a knock.
Beck.
Standing in the snow.
Looking wrecked.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“For what?”
“For pulling away. For saying it’s too complicated. For not being brave enough.”
“Beck—”
“Let me finish. You’re right. This is real. What we’re building. It scares the hell out of me. But running from it scares me more.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I don’t know what this is. Or where it’s going. But I want to find out. If you’re willing to be patient with me.”
“I’m willing.”
“Even though I’m a mess?”
“Especially because you’re a mess. We match.”
He laughs.
Wet and relieved.
“Can I come in?”
“Yes.”
He does.
They sit by the fire.
Not talking. Just existing.
Together.
It’s not a kiss.
It’s not a declaration.
But it’s something.
A beginning.
And for now, that’s enough.
They fall asleep on the couch.
Tangled together.
Fire burning low.
Outside, snow falls gently.
Covering the world.
Making everything clean.
Fresh.
New.
And inside, two broken people find comfort.
In each other.
In the possibility of healing.
In the hope that maybe, just maybe, they don’t have to be alone anymore.
It’s not perfect.
It’s complicated.
But it’s real.
And real is better than safe.
Always.
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