Chapter 5: Stories By The Fire

Updated Jan 14, 2026 • ~12 min read

POV: Hailey

The third night was when everything changed.

Reid had been distant all day—ever since our conversation at lunch where I’d called him out on hiding. I’d pushed too hard. Seen too much. Said things I had no right to say to a man I barely knew.

But stuck in this cabin, normal social boundaries didn’t seem to apply. We were past small talk. Past performance. Past pretending we were anything other than two damaged people trying to survive each other.

Dinner was quiet. He made some kind of stew—hearty and warm—and we ate in companionable silence. The storm had finally eased. Snow still fell but the wind had died. Tomorrow the roads might be passable. Tomorrow we’d leave this forced intimacy behind.

Tomorrow I’d go back to being the cheerful event planner and he’d go back to being the isolated mountain man and this strange, intense connection we’d built would fade like it had never existed.

The thought made me sad in a way I didn’t want to examine.

After dinner, I washed dishes while he tended the fire. Our routine. Our rhythm. Strange how quickly we’d adapted to each other.

“Storm should break by morning,” he said, staring into the flames. “Roads’ll be clear by tomorrow afternoon.”

“That’s good.” It didn’t feel good. It felt like—like something ending before it had really begun.

“You’ll get back to town. Finish planning the wedding. Get your promotion.”

“Yeah.” My promotion. The thing I’d been obsessing about for weeks. It felt distant now. Less important. Less—

Less like the validation I needed and more like just… a job.

When had that happened?

Reid added another log to the fire, then settled into his sleeping bag—earlier than usual. He looked tired. Not physically tired. Soul-tired. Worn down by something he kept buried.

I settled into my own sleeping bag, but I wasn’t ready to sleep. Wasn’t ready for this to be over.

“Reid?” I said into the firelit darkness.

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something? And you can tell me to shut up if you want.”

“What?”

“What happened in Seattle? What made you leave?”

Silence. Long silence. I thought he wouldn’t answer. Thought I’d pushed too far again. Thought—

“There was a building,” he said finally, voice flat. “Mixed-use development. Residential on top, commercial below. I designed it. Spent two years on the project. It was—it was good work. Beautiful. Functional. I was proud of it.”

I held my breath, afraid to move, afraid he’d stop talking.

“During construction, there was a collapse. Third floor. Structural failure. Three workers were injured. One of them—Derek—shattered his leg in four places. Another broke his back. The third had a concussion and internal bleeding.” His voice was mechanical. Reciting facts. Holding himself together through clinical distance.

“Oh my god,” I whispered.

“The investigation determined it wasn’t my design. The contractor had cut corners. Used cheaper materials. Didn’t follow the specs. Technically, legally, it wasn’t my fault.”

“But you blame yourself anyway.”

“I approved the construction. I signed off on inspections. I was responsible for—for making sure it was safe. For protecting those workers. And I failed.”

“Reid—”

“Derek walks with a limp now. Permanent damage. He was twenty-five years old. Had his whole life ahead of him. Was about to propose to his girlfriend. And now he—he’s marked by my failure forever.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“That’s what everyone said. The investigation. The insurance companies. Even Derek said he didn’t blame me. But it doesn’t matter. I was responsible. I failed. People got hurt because I—”

His voice cracked. Broke.

I sat up, saw him in the firelight—head in his hands, shoulders shaking.

He was crying.

This man who’d been stoic and grumpy and closed off for three days—he was breaking apart in front of me.

I didn’t think. Just moved. Crossed the three feet between our sleeping bags and wrapped my arms around him.

He went rigid. “Don’t—”

“I’m not leaving,” I said firmly. “You can cry. It’s okay. I’m not leaving.”

Something in those words broke him completely. He turned into my shoulder and sobbed—deep, wrenching sobs that sounded like three years of held-back grief.

I held him. Ran my hand through his hair. Let him break because he needed to break and there was no one else here to catch him.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I said quietly. “It wasn’t your fault. The contractor failed. You were betrayed. You couldn’t have known.”

“I should have known. I should have checked more carefully. Should have—”

“Should have what? Been psychic? Seen through walls? You’re human, Reid. Humans make mistakes. Humans trust the wrong people. That doesn’t make you responsible for their choices.”

“Three people were hurt because of me.”

“Three people were hurt because a contractor broke the law. Because the system failed. Because—because a dozen things went wrong that you couldn’t control. But you weren’t the one who made those choices.”

He pulled back, face wet with tears, eyes red. “I can’t forgive myself.”

“I know.”

“I can’t—I can’t stop seeing it. Hearing it. The sound of the collapse. The screaming. The—” He stopped, breathing hard. “I was there. I heard it from the street. Ran inside. Saw Derek trapped under the concrete. Saw him bleeding and screaming and I couldn’t—I couldn’t do anything.”

“Oh, Reid.”

“I tried to reach him. Tried to—the firefighters had to pull me back. Said it wasn’t safe. Said I’d get hurt too. But I didn’t care. I just—I needed to fix it. Needed to save him. Needed to—”

“Needed to not be helpless,” I finished gently.

He looked at me with something like recognition. Like I’d understood something crucial.

“Yeah.”

“That’s why you’re up here. It’s not just guilt. It’s—it’s the helplessness. The lack of control. The trauma of watching someone suffer and not being able to fix it.”

“I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t save him. I just—I destroyed him. Destroyed all of them. Destroyed—”

“You didn’t destroy anyone. You’re carrying guilt that isn’t yours to carry.”

“Tell that to Derek.”

“I would if I could,” I said. “I’d tell him it wasn’t your fault. That the contractor who cut corners is to blame. That the system that doesn’t properly oversee construction is to blame. That a dozen other people and processes failed before you even entered the equation.”

“It doesn’t matter. I was responsible.”

“Being in a position of responsibility doesn’t mean you’re responsible for every single thing that goes wrong. That’s not how it works.”

“That’s exactly how it works.”

I understood now. Understood why he’d isolated himself. Why he’d given up architecture. Why he—

Why he punished himself by being alone.

“Is that why you left Seattle?” I asked gently. “Because you couldn’t face them? Couldn’t face the guilt?”

He nodded. “After the investigation cleared me, I thought—I thought it would get better. Thought I could move on. But every time I walked past a construction site, every time I saw blueprints, every time I—” He stopped. “I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t trust myself. So I left. Came here. Bought property. Started over.”

“And isolated yourself as punishment.”

“As protection. So I couldn’t hurt anyone else.”

“But you did hurt someone,” I said quietly. “You hurt yourself. You gave up everything you loved. Everything you were good at. Everything that made you—you. You punished yourself for someone else’s crime.”

“It’s not—”

“It is. Reid, you took responsibility for something that wasn’t your fault and you’ve been paying for it for three years. When does the sentence end? When do you forgive yourself? When do you—when do you let yourself live again?”

“I don’t deserve to.”

“Because three people got hurt in an accident you didn’t cause?”

“Because I failed them.”

“You didn’t fail them. You weren’t perfect. There’s a difference.”

He looked at me—really looked—and I saw the wound there. The one that wouldn’t heal. The belief, deep and fundamental, that he was broken. Dangerous. Unworthy of redemption.

I knew that wound. Carried my own version.

“There’s something else,” he said quietly. “Something I haven’t told anyone.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“I was engaged. When the collapse happened.”

I went still.

“Her name was Vanessa. We’d been together four years. Engaged for six months. Planning a wedding. Planning—everything. She was ambitious, successful, confident. She loved that I was successful too. Loved the life we were building.”

“What happened?”

“The collapse happened. And I—I fell apart. Couldn’t work. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t—couldn’t function. I was drowning in guilt and she—” His voice went flat. “She left. Two weeks after the accident, she told me I was broken. That she couldn’t watch me destroy myself. That she deserved someone who had their life together.”

“She left you when you needed her most.”

“She left because I was too much. Too damaged. Too—” He stopped. “She proved what I’d always known. That I wasn’t worth staying for. Not when things got hard.”

“Reid, no—”

“It’s okay. She was right. I was broken. Still am. She did the smart thing. The safe thing. She—she left before I could destroy her too.”

The parallel hit me like a truck.

He believed he wasn’t worth staying for.

I believed I wasn’t worth choosing.

Same wound. Same fear. Same—

Same fundamental belief that we were too much and not enough all at once.

“She was wrong,” I said fiercely. “She was so wrong, Reid. You weren’t broken. You were grieving. You were traumatized. You needed support and love and someone to help you through the worst moment of your life. And she abandoned you. That’s on her. Not you.”

“She couldn’t handle it.”

“Then she wasn’t the right person. If she couldn’t handle you at your worst, she didn’t deserve you at your best. Real love stays. Real love fights. Real love doesn’t leave when things get hard.”

“How do you know? You said yourself you’ve never had that.”

“I know because of Morgan. Because when I had a breakdown sophomore year—when I couldn’t get out of bed for three weeks because I was so convinced everyone would leave—Morgan stayed. She brought me food. She sat with me. She fought for me when I’d given up on myself. That’s real love. That’s—that’s what you deserved. What you still deserve.”

“I don’t—”

“You do. Reid, you deserve someone who sees you at your worst and stays anyway. Who loves you through the broken parts. Who doesn’t leave when you’re not perfect. You deserve that.”

“So do you,” he said quietly.

The words hung between us.

“So do I,” I agreed. “But I’ve spent twenty-seven years believing I wasn’t worth it. Spent twenty-seven years performing and pleasing and perfecting because maybe if I was good enough, useful enough, happy enough, someone would choose me. Would keep me. Would—would love me despite everything.”

“That’s exhausting.”

“Yeah. It is.” I was crying now too. When had that started? “I’m so tired, Reid. I’m so tired of performing. Of pretending. Of trying to be perfect. Of—of trying to be worth keeping. I just—I just want someone to choose me without conditions. To see the messy, scared, broken parts and not send me back.”

“You’re not broken.”

“Neither are you.”

We stared at each other through tears and firelight, two wounded people recognizing their shared damage, and something shifted. Something fundamental.

He reached up, wiped my tears with his thumb—gentle, careful, like I was something precious.

“You’re not too much,” he said. “You’re not—you’re not disposable or returnable or temporary. You’re—you’re extraordinary. And anyone who made you feel otherwise was wrong. Was broken themselves. You’re—”

His voice broke again.

I leaned forward, pressed my forehead to his. “You’re not broken either. You’re grieving. You’re hurt. You’re—you’re carrying weight that isn’t yours to carry. But you’re not broken. You’re just—you’re just healing. Or trying to. And that’s enough.”

“Is it?”

“It has to be.”

We sat like that—foreheads touching, tears mixing, breathing each other’s air—and I felt something I’d never felt before.

Safe. Seen. Chosen.

Not because I’d performed perfectly. Not because I’d been useful. Not because—

Just because I was me. Messy, scared, broken me. And he saw all of it and didn’t pull away.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“For what?”

“For listening. For not leaving. For—for seeing the worst of me and not running.”

“Thank you for the same.”

“We’re a mess,” he said, almost laughing through the tears.

“We really are.”