Page 26 of Embers in Autumn

Amber

Sunlight stretched across the bedroom in golden stripes, slipping past the curtains to paint the walls. I stirred beneath the blanket, my body aching in ways that felt both tender and satisfying. Every muscle was tired, yet I’d slept deeper than I had in months. Maybe years.

Dean’s arm was draped over my waist, heavy and warm, his chest rising steady against my back. I lay still for a moment, breathing him in—the faint scent of soap and smoke clinging to his skin—and let myself soak in the strange comfort of it.

But then the thoughts crept in.

I liked him. God, I more than liked him.

He was thoughtful, romantic in a way that didn’t feel forced, protective without being suffocating.

He cared. He showed it, not just in the big gestures but in the quiet things—bringing me coffee, changing the damn battery in my smoke detector, remembering the way I take my wine.

And yet.

So did Mark, in the beginning.

The memory came uninvited, sharp as glass. Mark had been attentive once. Charming, considerate. He’d made me laugh, held me when I cried, promised me the world. Before the criticisms, before the cold silences and cruel words, before I found out he was giving his tenderness to someone else.

My stomach twisted. I closed my eyes, pressing my lips together, hating that my past still bled into this moment. That I couldn’t just… let myself be happy.

Because I was happy, wasn’t I?

The warmth of Dean’s arm, the faint brush of his breath on my neck, the ache in my body that reminded me how much I’d wanted him—how much I still did.

There was a strange satisfaction lingering inside me, not just physical, but something deeper.

Like a part of me had remembered what it was to feel wanted. To feel chosen.

Still, the fear gnawed. What if I was wrong again? What if this was just another story that started with tenderness and ended with scars?

I opened my eyes, staring at the sunlight cutting across the room, and tried to breathe past the knot in my chest.

I slipped from beneath the blanket inch by inch, holding my breath as though even the sound of air moving might wake him.

Dean stirred once, his arm tightening, then fell still again.

Relief mixed with guilt as I eased out of bed, gathering my dress from the chair and my scarf from the floor.

My boots felt impossibly loud as I carried them in one hand, padding toward the door with the careful steps of a thief.

The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against your ears. I moved into the kitchen, scanning the counters for my hat. Nothing. My pulse thudded as if every second mattered, as if leaving unseen would keep me safe from the storm still churning in my chest.

Then I saw it.

Pinned to the fridge beneath a cheap magnet was a photograph. Dean and Lana, his arm curled around her shoulders, her grin wide and gap-toothed. Judging by her size, maybe two or three years ago.

The frame around the photo was bright pink, decorated with little hearts and glittery stickers, and at the bottom, in bold text that looked printed or Photoshopped, were the words I love Mom .

My throat tightened. A Mother’s Day gift. A picture meant for someone who never came back to receive it.

I lifted the photo gently, my fingers trembling.

When I turned it over, my heart cracked wide open.

The back was covered in a child’s messy scrawl, letters uneven, some backwards, written in the hand of someone just learning.

To the person who never left me. I love you Dad.

I pressed my lips together, the words blurring as my eyes stung.

My chest ached in a way I hadn’t expected, sharp and heavy all at once.

That little girl, abandoned by her mother, left clinging to the one parent who stayed.

Dean carrying all of it, trying to be enough for her when someone else had chosen to walk away.

It broke me.

Because for all my fear of being hurt again, I wasn’t the only one living with scars.

And suddenly, leaving without a word didn’t feel like the right kind of escape anymore.

Never left.

The words seared into me, over and over, as if they’d been branded on the inside of my skull. My fingers tightened on the photo, the childish scrawl blurring as tears pooled in my eyes.

Was Dean that kind of person? The kind who stayed. The kind who carried the weight, who shouldered the pain, who never walked out the door no matter how hard it got.

Would he do the same for me?

The thought sent a different kind of fear through my bones, colder than the fear of being hurt again.

Because if I left now, if I walked away while he still slept in the other room, I’d never know the answer to that question.

I’d never know if the man whose daughter called him the one who never left might also be the man who could heal what I’d thought was broken for good.

My chest tightened, a lump swelling in my throat so thick it hurt to breathe. I set the photo back against the fridge, smoothing it under the magnet as if that could erase the ache it left in me. My hat sat on the counter nearby, waiting, but I didn’t reach for it. No.

Instead, I opened the fridge and pulled out the carton of eggs, my hands moving before my mind had even caught up.

Bacon, bread for toast, the skillet already heating on the stove.

The simple rhythm of cracking shells, the sizzle of fat in the pan—it was grounding, something I could control when my thoughts were anything but steady.

The smell of bacon filled the kitchen, warm and rich, curling through the air like an invitation.That was when I felt it—the weight of someone watching me. I turned, and there he was.

Dean leaned against the doorframe, bare-chested, just a pair of dark trousers slung low on his hips. His hair was mussed from sleep, his arms folded, and his eyes fixed on me in a way that made my stomach flip. How long had he been standing there?

I fumbled, nearly dropping the spatula. “I… thought you might be hungry,” I said quickly, my voice too light, too clumsy.

He didn’t answer right away. Just smiled, slow and knowing. But his eyes shifted, catching on my boots by the counter, my hat resting beside them. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He knew. He knew I’d been ready to go.

And yet, he said nothing.

Instead, he crossed the room in a few easy strides, heat radiating off him as he came up behind me. His hands slid around my waist, firm and certain, pulling me back against him.

Before I could speak, before I could explain or stumble through some excuse, his mouth was on mine.The kiss was nothing like last night’s hunger.

It was steady, certain, tender in a way that unraveled me more than the filthiest words ever could.

His lips claimed mine with a quiet kind of urgency, a vow without sound.

I melted into him, the spatula forgotten, the skillet sizzling behind us as the kiss deepened.

And in that moment, I understood—he wasn’t asking me why I’d nearly left. He wasn’t holding it against me. He was just telling me, in the only way he knew how, that I was still wanted here.

The bacon sizzled too long in the pan, and I nearly forgot about it entirely until Dean rescued the strips onto a plate with surprising grace for a man who usually worked with fire hoses, not frying pans.

We sat at his little kitchen table, the sunlight spilling in through the curtains, warm and golden.

For a moment, it felt like I’d stepped into someone else’s life—someone who woke up with their heart steady instead of afraid.

Dean poured me coffee before he even fixed his own plate, setting the mug in front of me with that easy smile of his.

It was such a small thing, but it hit me harder than I expected.

No man had ever done that for me before—no one had ever made me feel like my place at the table was something to be prepared for, like I belonged there.

I stirred a little sugar into the mug, biting back the sting of sudden tears. When I looked up, he was watching me again, but softer this time, like he could see every thought running through my head and wanted to take the weight from all of them.

“You know,” he said, spearing a piece of toast, “you’re a bit clingy.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

He grinned, leaning back in his chair. “I just invited you for dinner, Amber. Not breakfast too.”

For a heartbeat I just stared at him, then the laugh broke out of me, full and free, spilling into the room. I pressed a hand to my mouth but couldn’t stop, shaking my head as the sound filled every corner of the kitchen.

I’d been ready to sneak out the door like a thief, and here he was, teasing me, making me laugh until my ribs ached. Reversing the fear into something light, something sweet.

When I finally caught my breath, I met his eyes again. He wasn’t smirking anymore—he was just smiling, warm and steady, like he was glad I’d stayed.

“You’re ridiculous,” I said, my cheeks still pink.

“Maybe,” he said, reaching across the table to brush his thumb over my knuckles. “But I like seeing you laugh first thing in the morning.”

I curled my fingers around his, holding on, and for the first time in years, the thought of staying didn’t scare me at all.