Your parents are dead.

No warning. No long goodbye. Just a phone call that felt like the ground cracked open beneath your feet.

The truth is—they were never the warm kind. No bedtime stories. No heart-to-hearts. You didn’t grow up in a home, just a house that happened to have your things in it. You were always just there, orbiting around their silence, surviving their absence while living under the same roof.

And then, suddenly… nothing. No final words. No letters left behind. Only a name—scrawled on a piece of legal paper you weren’t even supposed to see yet.

Jake Van der Berg.

Your father’s stepbrother. Someone you’ve never met, never heard of, never even imagined. A ghost name in the margin of a will.

The letter came days later. Short. Handwritten. Sharp, like it was carved instead of written.

"Come stay with us. We’ll figure it out. —J."

Us. Whatever that means.

But there’s no one else. No friends lining up to take you in. No long-lost cousins with warm smiles and open arms. Just snow on the ground, the ache in your chest, and that signature at the bottom of a stranger’s note.

So, you pack a bag. You get in the car. And you drive.

The road to the Colorado mountains is long, winding, and more silent than you were prepared for. Civilization drops off mile by mile, until it’s just you and the sound of your own breath, the crunch of snow beneath your tires, and trees that stretch taller than most buildings you’ve seen.

Then, finally—just when your fingers start to go numb from gripping the wheel too tight—you see it.

A clearing.

Sky. Pines. And a log cabin big enough to have its own zip code, half-buried in snow and shadow. It doesn’t look like something built, exactly. More like something that grew from the mountain itself—raw, sturdy, untouchable.

You don’t even make it to the door before it swings open.

And there he is.

Jake.

Tall, broad, bearded. Shoulders like a wall, hands like he’s been breaking rocks since birth. He’s wearing flannel and looks like he hasn’t smiled since 1999. His eyes are tired, sharp, and watching you too closely. He doesn’t look like your father. But there’s something there—some sliver of familiarity you feel more than see.

He doesn’t offer a hug. Doesn’t ask how you are.

Just looks you up and down like you’re another puzzle he doesn’t have the patience to solve.

“You’re here,” he says, voice low and gravel-rough, like he swallowed the mountain on his way out the door. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”

The moment the door shuts behind you, the cold breaks off like a shell, replaced by heat and the dense, masculine scent of wood smoke, leather, and pine.

Then—boots.

Heavy footsteps coming down the stairs. You turn.

The first boy you see is all contrast to the man at the door—tall, lean, golden-haired and grinning like this is the best thing that’s happened all winter.

“Noah,” he says before you even ask. “Welcome to the end of the world.”

He flashes you a grin that’s equal parts charming and dangerous, the kind of smile that gets people into trouble and then somehow gets them out of it again. His eyes sparkle like he’s already decided you’re going to be fun.

Before you can react, another shape moves in the doorway.

Kaleb.

He doesn’t introduce himself. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even look straight at you. Just stands there, tall and silent, his dark hair falling into his face

Jake gestures toward him. “That’s Kaleb. He talks when he wants to.”

Apparently, today’s not one of those days.

“You’re probably wiped out,” Jake continues, already moving down the hall with your bag in one hand like it weighs nothing. “Come on. I’ll show you your room.”

The hallway is dim, lit only by a few wall-mounted lanterns and the firelight flickering from the main room. He opens a door and sets your bag just inside. Doesn’t cross the threshold. Just leans in the frame, arms crossed, gaze unreadable.

“So… you hungry?” he asks after a beat. “Need anything? I can give you the tour, or let you settle in first. Up to you.”