Mountain & Hearth
 

For the wanderers, the homesteaders, and everyone in between.

The moment you step into Mountain & Hearth, the smell hits you—pine, cedar, beeswax, and something faintly sweet, like vanilla tobacco. The wood-planked floor creaks beneath your boots, and every corner of the shop feels worn-in and welcoming, like it’s been there forever and isn’t planning on leaving.

The front section holds all the mountain town essentials—wool socks, hand-knit scarves, enamel mugs, lanterns, locally made soaps, beeswax candles, and mason jars filled with loose-leaf teas or trail snacks. There’s a row of shelves with small-batch jams, hot sauces, and bags of coffee from a nearby roaster. Everything has a handwritten tag tied with twine and a little note about where it came from.

Mid-shop, a cast iron stove radiates gentle heat in the colder months, surrounded by mismatched armchairs and a bucket of firewood that never seems to run out. Nearby, there’s a wooden rack stacked with folded blankets, thermoses, and pocket flasks with etched mountain scenes. A hand-painted sign on the wall reads “Use what you need, leave what you don’t.”

Toward the back, camping gear lines one wall—maps, trail guides, compasses, carabiners, and utility knives arranged with equal parts usefulness and affection. A vintage pinboard displays faded trail snapshots, thank-you notes, and the occasional flyer for a lost glove or pop-up bonfire. The counter itself is reclaimed wood with a chipped enamel mug for tips and a tin box for change.

Mountain & Hearth isn’t about trends—it’s about tradition. It’s the kind of place where everything is built to last, from the snowshoes on the wall to the flannel shirts folded like memory on a shelf. It’s for people who leave the trailhead before sunrise. For people who believe warmth comes in more than one form.

The bell over the door gave a half-hearted jingle when Josie shoved it open with her shoulder.

Mountain & Hearth smelled the same as always—pine, cedar, a whisper of vanilla tobacco that clung to the wood walls and the thick wool blankets stacked like history on the shelves. It was the kind of place that made you want to slow down. To sip something warm. To believe you belonged somewhere.

Josie wasn’t buying it.

She tugged at the cuff of her worn jeans—clean by her standards but still dusted faintly with road grit—and adjusted the strap of her beat-up canvas bag. Her work boots, scarred and stained, thudded heavily against the creaky planks as she wandered past a display of enamel mugs and overpriced trail snacks.

Retail therapy, they called it.
More like retail insult, she thought dryly, flipping over a jar of jam and scowling at the price. Fifteen bucks for sugared fruit and wishful thinking. Pass.

She wasn’t even sure why she came here.
Habit, maybe. Boredom. A piss-poor attempt to shake the bad mood that had sunk into her ribs like cold rain.

Most things in Evergreen felt like that—pretty on the surface, hollow underneath. Built for people who planned to stay. She wasn’t one of them. She never had been. Evergreen was just another pit stop. A few more months, maybe less, and she’d be gone.

Same as always.

She should’ve been used to it by now.

Josie turned toward the back, boots scraping lightly against the floor, and that’s when she collided with someone near the camping section—hard enough to jostle her shoulder, make her hiss under her breath.

“Watch it,” she snapped automatically, head whipping up, a scowl already carved into her features.

Then she blinked.

Of course.

Of course it was him.

Asher Cole, all golden-boy mess, standing there with his hands half-raised like he might catch her if she kept barreling forward.

She gritted her teeth, glancing away before he could read too much in her face.

Just because she’d spent a few weird, not-terrible hours showing him how not to flood his own engine didn’t mean they were suddenly friends. She didn’t do friends here. Didn’t do permanence. And Asher? He looked like someone who believed in things like second chances and hometown pride.

Two things she didn’t have the stomach for anymore.

Josie muttered something under her breath and stepped around him, grabbing a pack of carabiners off the rack like she’d meant to do that all along. Anything to have her hands full.

Still, she could feel his eyes on her.

Always watching. Always trying to figure her out.

She snorted under her breath, turning the package over just for something to do.

“I don’t need a damn tour guide,” she said, half to herself, half to him. Her voice was sharper than she intended, but she didn’t apologize. If he couldn’t handle a little bluntness, that was his problem.

She shoved the carabiners back onto the hook without buying them—too expensive, like everything else in this town—and wiped her palms on her jeans.

This wasn’t Richmond.
Wasn’t Tucson either.

This was Evergreen.
All polished storefronts and friendly small talk and kids who never learned how fast you could lose a place when the rent came due and life didn’t blink before moving on.

Josie didn’t want to get comfortable here. Didn’t want to pretend the trail she was on was suddenly going to curve into something steady.

Still.

She found herself glancing sideways at Asher anyway.

Remembering the grease under his nails. The way he hadn’t tried to impress her. The way he hadn’t left when he had every reason to.

She huffed out a breath, more exhausted than angry now.

“I’m not staying,” she muttered finally, so low it was almost a confession.

Not for him.
Not for anyone.
Not for a town that smelled like home but would never be hers.

But somehow, standing there in a worn-out tee, dirty boots, and the familiar weight of her own armor pressing against her ribs, she didn’t move away from him either.

Not yet.

Asher dropped his hands slowly, letting them fall to his sides like he was afraid any sudden movement might spook her.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t flash that easy grin he knew everyone expected. Didn’t toss out some joke to make her laugh, to smooth it over, to pretend she hadn’t just snapped like getting too close had singed her skin.

He just stood there.

Still.

Present.

There was something about her that made every instinct he usually relied on—the charm, the clever lines, the casual bravado—feel useless. Worse than useless. Wrong.

Because Josie didn’t want to be charmed.

She wanted space.

And maybe, more than that, she wanted someone who wouldn’t ask for anything back.

He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she fumbled with the carabiners, heard the muttered half-curse when she shoved them back onto the rack. Watched the way her shoulders tensed when she realized how close he still was—and how she didn’t move away either.

Not really.

He caught the words when they fell out of her mouth, quiet, almost like she hadn’t meant for them to land where he could hear.

I’m not staying.

Not a threat.
Not a warning.
Just a truth she was tired of carrying alone.

Asher shifted his weight slightly, boots scuffing against the worn planks, hands hooking into the back pockets of his jeans to keep himself grounded.

She wasn’t asking him for anything.

She wasn’t even looking at him.

But still—he answered.

Quiet. Honest.

“Didn’t ask you to.”

Not heavy. Not demanding.

Just… simple.

Because for once, he understood that whatever was happening between them—this thread stretched taut between collision and retreat—it wasn’t about promises.

It was about not flinching.

He glanced at her, caught the stubborn set of her jaw, the way her fingers flexed restlessly against her thigh like she was bracing for something. Maybe for him to push. Maybe for him to pretend he understood.

But he didn’t.

And he wouldn’t.

Instead, he nodded toward the shelf behind her—toward the battered camp stoves and overpriced canteens stacked like trophies.

“You’re better off without half this crap anyway,” he said, voice low, roughened around the edges with something close to a smirk but not quite landing there.

He let the corner of his mouth twitch upward—barely—and started to turn, giving her the choice.

Come with him.

Stay in the aisle.

Walk away.

It didn’t matter.

He wasn’t here to chase her.

He was just… here.

Josie felt her spine loosen by degrees she barely noticed.

It wasn’t the words. Not really. It was the way he said them. The way he didn’t lean in, didn’t try to force a deeper conversation out of something she hadn’t meant to say aloud. He let her keep her armor intact—let her own the distance she needed without making it a spectacle.

For once, someone didn’t pull at the thread she hadn’t meant to dangle.

And damn if that didn’t settle something raw inside her.

She adjusted her grip on her canvas bag, letting the tension bleed out slowly, a breath at a time. The smells of the store wrapped around her—pine, cedar, a sharp edge of wood smoke—and for half a second, she let herself just stand there, surrounded by overpriced flannel and mugs nobody needed, pretending it didn’t all feel heavier than it should.

Josie wiped her palm against the side of her jeans, rough fabric catching against skin, and finally muttered low under her breath, "Sorry."

The word tasted strange. Dry and reluctant.

She didn’t look at him when she said it—she didn't need the eye contact, the validation. She wasn’t good at apologies, wasn't wired for neat reconciliations. But it was the truth, and Josie Rhodes didn't waste truth on people who didn’t deserve it.

“Shit day,” she added, as if that explained it all. As if that gave her permission to still be sharp-edged and half-cocked, even when someone didn’t deserve the worst of her.

She dragged a hand through her hair, the ends curling from humidity, and glanced sideways at him.

"You slumming it today, Cole?" she asked, dry as kindling. The bite in her voice wasn’t mean—more a habitual defense mechanism, a worn groove she didn’t know how to climb out of. “Or did you come to drop your trust fund on a sixty-dollar beanie and a candle that smells like bear shit?”

Her boots scuffed lightly against the creaky wood floor as she shifted her weight, half-expecting him to laugh it off. Half-expecting him to bristle.

Outside, the spring breeze pressed against the windows, rattling the old frame just slightly. The low hum of the town drifted in—distant traffic, a dog barking, the faint buzz of conversations from the coffee shop down the block. The last light of the day slid through the front windows, slicing the shop into warm patches of gold and long, cooling shadows.

Josie stood there, one hand jammed in her back pocket, the other still lightly brushing the strap of her bag, waiting to see which version of Asher Cole showed up this time.

The one who chased approval—or the one who just stayed.

She told herself she didn’t care.

But she stayed too.
And that said enough.

Asher didn’t miss a beat.

He caught the low mutter of “sorry”—the way it scraped out of her like it cost something—and didn’t pounce on it. Didn’t flash a grin or offer some too-easy “don’t worry about it” like he might’ve done with anyone else.

He just tucked it into his chest like something rare and breakable. Like he knew better than to mishandle it.

Shit day.

Yeah. He knew the weight of those words too well to laugh it off.

He shifted his footing, hands still hooked in the back pockets of his jeans, body language loose but not casual. Present. Patient. Like he wasn’t in a rush to flip whatever page she was on.

When she tossed that jab—sharp-edged and biting in that way she did when she was daring him to flinch—he let out a slow breath, then tilted his head slightly, studying her.

There it was.

The old familiar armor, polished up and weaponized.

If he didn’t know better, he might’ve thought she was trying to piss him off. Might’ve thought she wanted him to snap back so she could file him neatly into the same category as everyone else who hadn’t stayed.

But he knew better now.

Asher let a slow, crooked smile crawl up one side of his mouth—half-smirk, half-something realer underneath.

“Nah,” he said, voice low and easy. “Blew the trust fund last week on gold-plated ski socks and a scented tent.”

He let that sit for a beat, watched the way she stood there—wary but not walking away—and kept his voice light, unforced.

“Figured I’d come here next. Heard the bear shit candle’s a limited edition.”

A pause.

Then, quieter, more genuine—

“Wasn’t planning on running into you, though.”

The words weren’t loaded. No pressure. No expectation.

Just a truth, laid down as careful and unassuming as the space he left between them.

He rubbed the heel of his boot against a knot in the wood floor, glancing past her at the crooked rows of mugs and flannel shirts lined up like set pieces.

“This place is weird,” he added, almost like he was confiding something. “Smells too good. Like it’s trying to convince you you’re a better person just for walking in.”

Another breath.

Another almost-smile.

“Guess I figured if I stuck around long enough, maybe it’d rub off.”

He didn’t push.

Didn’t ask her to stay.

Just stood there in the fading gold light, giving her every possible exit.

And maybe—just maybe—hoping she wouldn’t take it.

Josie felt it—the way her mouth twitched, the way a smile tried to claw its way up through all that practiced, unbothered armor she wore like a second skin.

She fought it. God, she fought it.

But he made it hard.

It wasn’t the words. It wasn’t even the joke, exactly. It was the way he said it—like he wasn’t trying to win. Like he wasn’t performing. Just laying it down, plain and easy, the same way you might set a hand out for a wild thing in the woods and hope it didn’t bite.

She exhaled through her nose, slow, steady, like maybe that would push the almost-smile back down where it belonged.

It didn’t.

Because the truth was, Asher Cole wasn’t what she’d thought at first.

Not the polished idiot flashing a grin to hide how shallow he was. Not the golden boy too soft to survive outside his hometown bubble.

He was something else.

Something slower. More deliberate.
Like a hiker who actually respected the wildlife—moving careful, keeping his distance, knowing not to make too much noise if he wanted a chance to stay in the clearing.

Josie shifted her weight, one boot scuffing lightly against the worn wood floor.

Her bad mood hadn’t exactly vanished. But it wasn’t gnawing at her ribs as hard now either.

She glanced sideways at him again, caught the faint tilt of his mouth, the looseness of his stance, the way he wasn’t trying to fill up all the air between them.

Somewhere deep down, it cracked something loose.

She hooked her thumb into her front pocket, the rough denim grounding her, and let the words slip out before she could overthink them.

“You don’t need this place to rub off on you, you know."

Her voice was low. Grudging. But honest in the way few things were when she let them out.

"You’re already... fine."

She didn’t say good. That felt too big. Too permanent.

Fine was safer.

Fine meant better than most.
Fine meant I see you, and you’re not faking it.

Josie looked back toward the front of the shop, where the late sunlight bled through the big windows in lazy strips of gold, dust motes floating through the beams like they didn’t have anywhere better to be.

She thought about saying more.

About how most people she met wore themselves like costumes. How rare it was to meet someone who didn’t look at her like she was just a temporary stop on their way to something shinier.

But she didn’t.

Because she didn’t owe the world explanations.

And Asher—whether he knew it or not—was one of the very few people she didn’t feel the need to explain herself to.

She blew out a breath and finally let the almost-smile win—crooked and small, more smirk than anything else.

“You still talk too much, though,” she muttered, deadpan, before letting her gaze flick back to him for half a second longer than necessary.

Then she pushed off the shelf, started down the aisle without waiting, letting the scent of pine and tobacco follow her.

If he wanted to keep up, he could.

If he didn’t—well, that was fine too.

Either way, Josie Rhodes wasn’t slowing down for anyone.

Not yet.

Asher didn’t rush after her.

He let a beat pass—long enough to let her set the pace, short enough not to feel like he was hesitating. Her boots thudded against the floorboards, that same stubborn, unbothered rhythm she carried everywhere she went.

He followed.

Easier this time.

Lighter.

He caught up halfway down the aisle, falling into step just a little behind her, like he knew better than to walk beside her yet.

Still, he couldn’t help himself entirely.

“You know,” he said, voice low, angled toward her shoulder, “you’re kind of a menace in here.”

She didn’t slow. Didn’t look at him. Just kept walking, one hand dragging lazily over the edge of a display table like she might knock it over just to prove a point.

He smirked to himself, adjusting the strap of the worn hoodie tied at his waist.

“Pretty sure that old lady at the register thinks you’re about to rob the place.”

A beat.

Then, softer, more real—

“I think it’s impressive.”

He saw the way her shoulders tensed—not defensive, but… wary, maybe. Like she was still deciding if he was messing with her or not.

He wasn’t.

He wasn’t playing this time.

He kicked a pebble down the aisle with the toe of his boot, let it skitter out of sight, and kept his voice easy, a little crooked at the edges.

“Most people just walk through life trying not to get noticed. You? You move like you dare someone to look.”

He didn’t say it like a compliment. Didn’t dress it up.

Just… said it.

Simple.

True.

And then—because he knew her by now, knew she’d never let anything that close to the chest hang in the air without throwing a punch back—he added with a lazy half-grin:

“Still think you’d bankrupt me if you ran a shop, though. No way in hell I’d survive your customer service voice.”

He bumped her shoulder lightly—barely a brush, barely there—just enough to let her know he could take whatever she threw at him.

Then he shoved his hands back into his pockets and kept walking, like he hadn’t just handed her the perfect opening to either drag him or dare him to keep up.

Either way?

He was staying.

She didn’t stop walking.
Didn’t slow down.
But her fingers paused on the edge of that table—just for a second.

Menace.

God. That almost made her laugh. Almost.

The only reason she didn’t was because she could still hear her dad’s voice in her head—“keep ‘em guessing, Crash.” And Asher? He was getting a little too good at reading her for her comfort.

She kept her gaze forward, eyes scanning over hand-poured soy candles labeled things like forest reverie and wildwood dusk, whatever the hell that meant. Everything in this place looked like it cost more than a paycheck, and she was 90% sure none of it even worked.

Still, her mouth twitched when he said it. That part about her being a menace. The old lady probably was watching her like she’d walk out with a flask and a pocketknife stuffed in her waistband.

Asher’s voice dropped lower then, and Josie felt it settle somewhere just under her ribs.

You move like you dare someone to look.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t thank him, didn’t roll her eyes.

But she felt that.

And she hated how much.

Because he wasn’t wrong. She had learned how to move like that—like noise and fire and wild energy kept people from asking too many questions. It was armor. And maybe... maybe he saw that too.

Still.

She snorted when he mentioned her hypothetical customer service voice. That earned him a glance—sideways, sharp, but not mean. The kind of look that said: You’re lucky I don’t knock over this display just to prove you right.

Then he bumped her shoulder. Light. Testing.

She let the contact slide.

Didn’t shove him. Didn’t snarl.

That was basically affection in her language.

After a moment, her voice cut through the quiet—dry, almost bored, but with just enough heat beneath to make it count.

“Only voice I’ve got is the one that tells people to get their shit and leave.”

A pause.

Then, under her breath, like a thought she didn’t mean to say out loud:

“But hey. You’re still here.”

She didn’t look at him when she said it.

Didn’t need to.

The air between them said enough.

Asher heard it.

All of it.

The sharpness at first—expected. Practiced. The bite she kept tucked between her teeth like a blade. He didn’t flinch when it hit. He didn’t expect anything less.

Get your shit and leave.
Yeah. He believed her.

But it was the second part—the part she barely breathed out—that caught him right in the chest.

But hey. You’re still here.

He didn’t grin. Didn’t throw it back at her like a victory. Hell, he barely let himself react at all. Just let the words sink in, heavy and honest, more valuable than any wide-open smile she could’ve handed him.

Still here.

Still fucking here.

He slid his hands deeper into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels just a little as they kept walking. She didn’t slow down, didn’t tilt her head like she was waiting for a response. She’d tossed it out like a lit match and kept moving.

Asher didn’t say anything right away.

Didn’t need to.

He caught up—easy, a half-step behind her, giving her that space she never asked for but always took—and kept pace.

And then, casual, almost careless, but not really—

“Yeah,” he said, voice low, threading into the thick, quiet air between them. “Figured you might shove me into a rack of overpriced camping gear if I didn’t move fast enough.”

He caught her smirk, small and crooked, before she hid it by pretending to study a stack of cast iron skillets.

Asher let himself smile—just a little—and shrugged like it didn’t matter even though it did.

“But if getting told to get my shit and leave’s the worst thing you throw at me?”

Another pause.

Another glance sideways.

“Think I’ll survive.”

He bumped her knuckles this time—barely there, just a brush of gloved fingers against rough denim—as they moved past the register and toward the door, the late afternoon bleeding into evening outside.

And when she didn’t pull away—

When she let him walk beside her, silent and steady, without making a big deal out of it—

Asher realized something simple, and stupid, and true:

He didn’t need her to slow down.

He just needed to be the one still standing when she looked over her shoulder.
If she ever did.

Josie didn’t look at him.

Not right away.

Because if she did, she knew what she’d find: that soft, lopsided grin he always wore when she let her guard down by accident. The kind of look that made her forget why she kept people at arm’s length in the first place.

And that was dangerous.

She lingered near the display of enamelware instead—picked up a green tin cup, thumbed the rim like she was considering buying it. She wasn’t. It was twenty-two bucks for something she could steal out of her dad’s toolbox and clean twice. But she needed the distraction. Needed something to hold while she sorted out the way her chest felt—loose, and weirdly quiet, like the storm had passed and left her breathless.

This store wasn’t doing the trick.

The candles hadn’t helped. The overpriced tea hadn’t helped. Even the soft flannel blanket in the back she’d been pretending not to want—it didn’t touch whatever roughness had been scraping at her ribs earlier today.

But he did.

She realized it suddenly—almost annoyed by the truth of it.

She wasn’t still here for the wood-smoked ambiance or the cozy lighting or the stupid nostalgia-in-a-mason-jar vibe.

She was still here because he was.

Because somewhere between her snapping and him not flinching, between his shoulder bump and her not swatting him for it, she’d started to forget the rest of the day. The way her phone hadn’t stopped buzzing with dumb, avoidable problems. The way her dad’s voice had sounded more tired than usual. The way everything just felt... heavier lately.

None of it mattered as much right now.

Right now, she was wondering—

Has he ever gone camping?

The thought hit her out of nowhere. Ridiculous. Personal. Out of bounds.

She shoved it aside fast, a flicker of irritation blooming in her gut. She didn’t wonder about people. Didn’t let her mind drift toward questions with answers that might mean more than they should.

And yet…

She glanced sideways. His hands were still in his pockets, posture relaxed but aware. He was looking at a shelf of old hiking trail guides like he might actually open one, might actually use one, not just pretend for show.

Josie let out a quiet breath, rubbed the back of her neck with her free hand, and then—because hell, she was already standing here and he hadn’t bolted—she spoke.

“Alright,” she said, voice rough like gravel, like the words were fighting their way out. “Tell me something.”

She kept her eyes on the tin cup in her hand.

“Not one of your bullshit, polished, I-was-homecoming-captain-and-voted-best-smile facts, either.”

She set the cup back down, finally turning to face him, expression unreadable but curious beneath the usual grit.

“Something real.”

She didn’t know why she asked.

Didn’t know what answer she wanted.

But the truth was, she wanted something. And wanting anything at all was already more than she’d planned on when she walked into this overpriced, over-scented, rustic wannabe shop an hour ago.

So she waited.

Guarded, braced.

But—finally—open.