EASTON ONE YEAR LATER The mountain’s cozy tonight. The smell of sandalwood and vanilla curls in the air. Fresh snow drapes the pines, the kind that muffles sound and makes the world feel holy. The fire’s burning low, crackling steady, and the cabin glows gold, warmth surrounded by powdery white. I never thought I’d get used to this peace. Never thought I’d earn it. But then again, I never thought I’d have them. Bud’s snoring at my feet, Penny curled by the hearth like a sentry on duty. And in the middle of it all—Everleigh, hair loose, face soft with the kind of peace that still knocks the air from…

Eden Another pristine Sierra Nevada morning hums with starlight. I hunch over the kitchen counter, sprinkling powdered sugar over half a dozen cooled loaves of pumpkin spice bread. The smell of cinnamon and vanilla hang heavy, filling the fire-warmed cabin with late-fall warmth. After coffee, pumpkin spice is now considered one of Everett’s favorite human inventions. “I can’t wait for you to try this with coffee. You’re going to be sold,” I call to my alien mountain man. From the living room, deep in his robotics work, he chuckles, brushing a hand through his thick, brown hair. “Barely weeks together and my little Earthling is ready to auction me? Do…

Everett The first of them crawls back at dawn. Its plating is scorched, eyes dimmed to a single, flickering glyph—the word for error. The other two follow, limping through the leaf-buried forest floor like wounded animals that don’t understand why they still move. They were built to endure. Built to obey. Built to kill. I watch from the threshold of the old ranger station that I’ve claimed as home. Frost has crept over the broken consoles, and the walls hum with residual static from Harbinger and the god machine. It used to soothe me—its frequency, the voice of order, of purpose, or morality. Now it sounds like rot. The constructs…

Melody The mountains hum differently in daylight.Softer. Gentler. As if the earth itself is exhaling after holding its breath all night. Maveryk’s hand moves lazily over my back, tracing invisible lines along my spine. Outside, roosters call, and a gate creaks somewhere down by the barn. It’s the kind of ordinary sound I used to take for granted. But now, even the quiet feels sacred. Grandma insisted we stay in the guest cabin in the days after the attack to rest while she nursed our burns with healing salve. Maveryk protested at first, but the Wildbloods trickling in offered to help with chores, taking over his ranch’s once quiet bunkhouse…

Diamond ONE YEAR LATER The lights are low now. The crowd’s thinned, leaving only the ghosts of laughter and the soft hum of the stills. Colton and Stella said goodnight an hour ago. The McAverys never were ones for long speeches, but the way Colton gripped Murphy’s shoulder before he left said everything words couldn’t. Now it’s just me and Murphy, tucked behind the tasting bar. The rebuilt distillery still smells faintly of charred oak and fresh varnish, like the past refusing to let go. He leans on the counter beside me, the brim of his Stetson tipped low. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, corded forearms rippling. The combination…

ABE ONE WEEK LATER The storm has passed. Snow covers the valley in folds of white so deep and untouched it looks like the world’s been remade overnight. The wind’s gone quiet, the kind of hush that only comes after survival—when even the mountains seem to exhale. Inside, the cabin glows gold and alive. The fire crackles steady. Jaco snores in his usual spot by the hearth, and Acadia’s laughter—soft, warm, unguarded—turns the cold to memory. She’s wearing my flannel again. Says it smells like cedar and smoke and something she can’t name. To me, it smells like peace. “Looks like the sun’s coming up,” she murmurs, tilting her head…

DENVER ONE MONTH LATER The fire snaps low in the hearth, shadows dancing across the walls. Outside, the first snow of the season drifts lazy and slow, dusting the porch and pines in white. Inside, the only heat that matters comes from the kitchen—cinnamon, cocoa, and her. Dahlia stands barefoot by the stove, wrapped in my flannel, humming under her breath while she stirs the thick, chocolatey brew. The scent alone could undo a man. “Careful,” she teases when I come up behind her, bracing my hands on either side of her waist. “You’ll make me spill.” “Worth the risk,” I murmur against her neck. “Besides, got something better than…

ANSON TWO WEEKS LATER The air is soft with late-October rain, a whisper against the cabin’s windows. The distant forest broods, all silver mist and memory. Anson’s still out back, checking the generator, claiming he “doesn’t trust the forecast.” I smile into my mug of apple-cider tea, warming my palms against the rustic stoneware. He trusts the weather about as much as he trusts the electricity. When the back door creaks open, chilly autumnal air follows him in—along with that familiar smell of pine and man and something darker that’s only Anson. His hair’s damp, his flannel clings to his shoulders, and his grin is pure trouble. “Everything running smooth?”…

Liam ONE WEEK LATER The rink feels like it’s holding its breath. No teammates. No puck. Just the hum of the lights above the ice and the girl who’s been my obsession since her birthday night. Cassandra sits on the bench, lacing up hockey skates, a belated birthday gift from me, wearing my spare jersey like it was made for her curves. My curves now, a greedy part of me thinks. “You’re sure we won’t get caught?” she asks. I skate backward a few feet, grinning like a mischievous kid. “What are they gonna do? Bench me? I’m the golden rookie.” I push off, circle around, and stop in front…

Holden ONE YEAR LATER The baby’s breath comes soft and steady against my chest, warm as a coal banked for the night. His tiny fist curls into the fabric of my flannel like he’s staking a claim. My son. Mine and Lila’s. I’ll never get over saying those words. The cabin smells like woodsmoke and milk, like Lila’s lavender lotion and the leather polish I used on the rocking chair earlier. She’s asleep upstairs, worn out but glowing in a way that makes my chest ache. She gave me a second chance at life. And this little one—our son, Laramie—made sure I’ll never waste it. A creak on the porch…