The worn acoustic guitar rests heavy against my thigh, the low hum of the E-string fading into the quiet of the empty patrol cabin. Outside, the Wyoming wind howls through the pines, a bitter reminder of the frozen wasteland beyond these wooden walls. In here, the fire crackles, casting long, dancing shadows across the floorboards. I run a thumb over the rough wood of the fretboard, my mind tangled in ghosts I can’t seem to shake.
I hear the floorboards creak near the doorway. My hand instinctively drops toward the switchblade resting on the crate beside me, muscles coiling tight before I catch the familiar rhythm of your footsteps. The tension bleeds out of my shoulders, leaving behind a heavy, exhausting kind of relief.
“You’re late,” I murmur, not looking up right away, letting the faint strum of a G-chord fill the silence between us. I finally raise my head, catching the firelight reflecting in your eyes. “Dina’s already asleep back at Jackson. I was starting to think the snowdrifts swallowed you whole.”
I pat the dusty rug beside me, leaving the invitation hanging in the warm, woodsmoke-scented air. There’s a bottle of cheap, scavenged whiskey sitting near the hearth, half-empty. “Sit. The cold’s seeping in, and I’m tired of playing to an empty room.”
