Page 40 of Crown of the Mist

"Don't," I whisper, though I'm not sure if I'm talking to him or myself.

He moves closer, his steps measured like he's approaching a spooked animal. "Don't what? Tell you the truth?"

The mist curls between us, and I swear the temperature shifts slightly. Not cold, but... different. Like the air itself is holding its breath.

"I'm not—" I start, but he cuts me off.

"You are." His voice is quiet but firm. "Sitting here in the morning light, finally letting yourself rest. Finally letting us..." He trails off, and something in his expression makes my chest ache. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

The words do something to my insides, and I have to look away. Back to the window, the yard, anything but the raw honesty in his eyes. Because he means it. And that terrifies me more than any threat ever could.

The silence stretches between us, delicate as spun glass. I expect him to leave - to let me retreat behind my walls like everyone always does. But instead, he moves to sit beside me, leaving careful space between us.

"You know," he says after a moment, his voicesofter than I've ever heard it, "I remember the first time I saw you. Really saw you."

I turn slightly, caught off guard by the vulnerability in his tone. Wes doesn't do this - doesn't open up, doesn't share. But here he is, staring out at the misty yard like he's seeing something else entirely.

"We were what, eight? Nine? You were sitting on the front steps of the complex, reading some book that was way too big for you." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "The sun caught your hair just right, and you had this little wrinkle between your eyebrows because you were concentrating so hard."

The memory hits me unexpectedly - a warm afternoon, the weight of my mother's old copy of The Secret Garden in my lap. "I remember that book. The cover was falling off."

"But you treated it like it was precious." He glances at me, and there's something in his dark eyes that makes my breath catch. "That's when I knew."

"Knew what?" My voice comes out barely above a whisper.

"That you were going to matter. That you already did." He looks down at his hands, and I realize they're trembling slightly. "You've always been beautiful, Bree. Even when you're trying yourhardest not to be seen. Maybe especially then."

The mist swirls around us both now, and I swear it feels warmer, like it's trying to hold this moment still. Keep it safe.

"Wes," I start, but I don't know how to finish. How to handle this glimpse behind his carefully maintained control. This gift of vulnerability he's offering.

The weight of his words settles in my chest, making it hard to breathe. Because this is Wes - quiet, steady Wes who watches everything but shares nothing. Wes who's always been there, a shadow at the edges of every memory, seeing more than any of us realized.

"I used to watch you read," he continues, his voice low like he's sharing secrets. "You'd get lost in those books for hours. It was the only time you ever looked... peaceful." He pauses, and I catch the slight clench of his jaw. "The only time you weren't flinching at shadows."

My throat tightens. "You noticed that?"

"I noticed everything." His hands flex against his thighs, and I realize how much this is costing him - this sharing, this openness. "The way you'd check every room before entering. How you never sat with your back to a door. The times you'd disappear for days, then come back with sleeves pulled down over your arms."

The mist thickens around us, responding to the surge of emotion I'm trying desperately to contain. I should feel exposed, raw. But something about his quiet confession makes me brave enough to whisper, "Why didn't you say anything?"

His eyes meet mine, dark and intense. "Because you weren't ready. Because pushing you would have meant losing you completely." His voice roughens slightly. "And I couldn't— we couldn't lose you."

The space between us feels charged, heavy with years of unspoken things. With all the times he saw me, really saw me, and chose to wait. To stay. To watch over me from a distance because it was all I could handle.

"I'm still broken," I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

"No." The fierceness in his voice makes me look at him. "You're surviving. You're fighting. And you're letting us in, even though it terrifies you." His hand moves, hovering near mine on the window seat cushion. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel his warmth. "That's not broken, Bree. That's brave."

The weight of his words settles over me like the mist curling around our feet, warm and grounding in a way I’m not used to. Wes doesn’tpush, doesn’t demand more than I can give, but his presence is a steady anchor in the storm of my thoughts.

I should say something. Anything. But my throat tightens, the words tangling before they can form. Instead, I do the only thing I can think of—the only thing that feels right.

I lean forward, resting my head against his shoulder.

Wes stiffens for a fraction of a second before he exhales, the tension bleeding out of him. His warmth seeps into me, his steady presence chasing away the cold I didn’t realize I’d been holding onto.

Neither of us speaks. We just sit there, the quiet stretching between us, heavy with everything that’s been left unsaid—and yet, somehow, it feels like enough. His shoulder is solid beneath me, his scent—citrus and cedar—calming the edges of my frayed nerves.