Page 25 of Huck Frasier (Seals on Fraiser Mountain #5)

Frasier

The Morning After

M arley was curled on the bed beside me, wrapped in one of my flannel shirts.

Her hair was damp from a quick shower, and her face was scrubbed clean.

Still bruised, still pale—but the steel in her spine was coming back.

Her ribs were hurting like hell. I shouldn’t have made love to her. She was hurting.

She nursed a mug of tea like it might anchor her. “Are we going to make love before we leave?”

“No. You need to heal.”

We sat in silence for a while. The hush of early light on the bare mountains outside. The stillness that only comes after survival.

Then she said, “Can I tell you something I’ve never told anyone?”

I looked over at her. “Always.”

She stared into the mug. “When I was ten, my mom left the stove on.”

I didn’t say anything. Just waited.

“She lit a cigarette, forgot about the burner, I guess she forgot who knows, and she walked out of the house. Left me and Lark home alone. We were playing dress-up in the hallway, didn’t even smell the gas.”

Her voice was flat now. Careful.

“Our dad had forgotten something and came back for it. Found the whole kitchen full of gas fumes, a moment later no telling what would have happened. He got us out in time. But if he hadn’t…”

Her eyes lifted, glassy but fierce. “We’d be dead. Me. Lark. And I don’t think she would’ve noticed.”

“Jesus,” I breathed.

“She said it was an accident. But after that, we never trusted her. And then when she disappeared after graduation, it almost felt like a relief. Like we could finally breathe without worrying we wouldn’t wake up.”

I reached out, took her hand.

She didn’t let go.

“I still smell it sometimes,” she whispered. “The gas. It makes me freeze. And sometimes I wonder if I’ve got the same crack in my brain she had. Like if I ever stop running, it’ll catch up.”

“You’re nothing like her, Marley.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. Because she walked away from her daughters.” I squeezed her hand. “And you walk into fucking hell to save kids you’ve never even met.”

Her throat worked. “I wanted you to know. In case you ever saw me crack.”

“I already have,” I said. “And you still shine through it.”

Her breath hitched.

“I used to think love was supposed to be earned,” she said. “Like if I did enough, stayed strong enough, people would stick around. But you don’t make me earn it. You just… show up.”

“Every time,” I said.

She turned toward me, legs pulled under her, that fire coming back into her eyes.

“What about you?” she asked quietly. “What made you the guy who carries everyone else’s weight?”

I gazed into her eyes for a long time.

Then: “My mom was sick, too. Not the same way. Depression. Deep. Dark. Some days she couldn’t get out of bed. Others she’d clean the whole house three times and cry if a picture frame was crooked.”

Marley didn’t speak. Just listened.

“I learned to be steady because someone had to be. My dad bailed when I was twelve. I handled school, bills, and made sure she ate. Plus, my grandfather helped me. When she finally got help, it was too late for me to be a kid. So I joined the military.”

“Because you already knew how to survive,” Marley said.

I gave a slow nod.

She leaned into me, her head on my shoulder, and whispered, “We’re two kids who never got to be kids.”

“Yeah.”

“But we’re still here.”

“Still fighting.”

“Still choosing.”

I looked down at her. “So choose this. Stay. No more running.”

She tilted her chin up. “And only if you’re coming with me.”

I brushed my lips across her forehead. “Always.”