Coldbridge Isn’t Home
POV Sage
Coldbridge looks exactly like the kind of town I used to drive through without stopping. Quiet streets. Stubborn locals. Too much sky, not enough noise.
The kind of place people come back to, not run toward.
But here I am — overnight bag slung over my shoulder, breath a little uneven from the hill, and pretending I’m not more tired than I should be.
My reflection in the hardware shop window catches me before I push the door open: loose dark waves tucked behind my ears, skin pale from too many bad months, eyes a green-gold that look brighter when I’m not exhausted… which hasn’t been often.
I straighten, roll my shoulders back. Fake it. Always fake it.
The bell chimes when I walk in.
A man looks up from behind the counter — and for a second, I forget what I came for.
He’s… impossible to ignore.
Tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of build you only get from real work, not a gym. Dark hair, a little too long and pushed back with fingers instead of effort. Stubble over a strong jaw. And eyes — gray, sharp, unsettling in how much they seem to notice in a single glance.
He stands there like he’s carved into the room, arms folded, forearms corded with muscle, expression set somewhere between guarded and annoyed.
Great. Exactly the vibe I need today.
“I’m here for a key,” I say.
“Which one?” His voice is low, deep, like he doesn’t use it unless he has to.
“Cedar Street cottage.”
He watches me a beat longer than necessary. Like he’s cataloging details. Like he’s deciding something about me already.
Then he turns, grabs the key, and hands it to me.
Our fingers almost brush, but he avoids contact — cleanly, deliberately.
“Welcome to Coldbridge.” He says it like ‘welcome’ is a stretch.
“Thanks,” I reply. “Can’t wait.”
His mouth twitches — not a smile. More like I’ve surprised him.
“You new here?” he asks.
“Passing through.”
He lifts a brow. “Most people don’t rent houses when they’re passing through.”
“Most people don’t interrogate strangers picking up keys.”
That gets a reaction — a small, amused huff.
Up close, he’s even more impossible. A scar near his right eyebrow. A faint grease stain near the hem of his sleeve — someone who works with his hands. Strong. Solid. Grounded in a way I haven’t felt in years.
“You always this defensive?” he asks.
“You always this nosy?”
“Only when someone looks like they’d rather be anywhere but here.”
He’s right, but I’m absolutely not giving him that.
I turn to leave, but he says, “Name’s Cole Ashwood. If anything breaks at that cottage, I’m the guy they send.”
Of course he is.
“It won’t break,” I tell him.
His gray eyes sweep over me — assessing, not inappropriate, just… thorough.
“We’ll see,” he says.
I step outside before he can get any deeper under my skin.
The cool air hits my face, and the faint tightness in my chest returns. Small. Manageable. Ignored, like always.
Coldbridge isn’t home. And I’m definitely not here to make friends.
Especially not with men who look like they can see right through me.
