Page 18

EMMY

The door clicks shut.

Quiet and careful, but something in me still jolts, like I’ve been left behind.

Not in a bad way. Not really. Just… a way that leaves a hollow ache in my chest, echoing faint and unfamiliar.

He didn’t say anything. Just gave me the shirt, turned off the hallway light, and closed the door.

But something in his eyes right before he turned—something unreadable, something heavy—I can’t stop thinking about it.

Luca settles by the door almost immediately, his big body making a gentle thud against the wood. Cleo hops lightly onto the end of the bed, curling into the blanket near my feet like she’s staked her claim.

And me?

I’m just lying here in Cal’s shirt.

Cal’s shirt.

In his bed.

I pull the covers higher, trying to calm my skittering pulse. The blanket is soft, its fabric a little stretched from wear. It smells like cedar and soap and something warm beneath it, like flannel sheets and pine smoke and him.

I press my face into the collar.

It’s too much.

Not in a bad way. My chest flutters like I’ve just stepped into something sacred. Like my body knows I’m somewhere peaceful, and doesn’t know what to do with the relief.. In the kind of way that makes it impossible to sleep.

The room doesn’t feel cold. Doesn’t feel too big or unfamiliar or haunted. But it doesn’t feel right, either.

Not without him.

I try.

I really do.

Tuck the blankets in tighter. Roll to one side. Then the other. Try counting breaths. Try pretending this ache in my chest isn’t what it is.

But I last maybe an hour.

And then I give in.

I slide one of the quilts from the edge of the bed—one of the ones Cal handed me with that soft, unreadable look in his eyes—and wrap it around my shoulders. It smells like the rest of the cabin. Like him.

I slip out quietly.

Bare feet on warm wood. Careful not to wake the dogs, though I know Luca hears me. He lifts his head, watches me go, but doesn’t follow. Like he understands.

I don’t go to wake Cal.

That’s not what this is.

I don’t want him to fix anything. I don’t want to pull him from the little sleep he gets, or make him feel responsible for this restless, aching quiet inside me.

I just… can’t sleep away from him.

Not when he’s this close.

Not after everything tonight—after his porch light glowing like a promise, after the kiss to the top of my head, after the way he looked at me like I mattered. Like I wasn’t a burden or a guest or a mess to be managed, but something worth making space for.

I can’t explain it, not even to myself.

Just that lying there alone in his bed, wrapped in the softest things he owns, wearing his shirt like a shield—it wasn’t the same as being wrapped in him. It wasn’t his arms, his warmth, his breath steady beside mine.

I still couldn’t breathe right. Not fully.

Because the safety wasn’t in the room.

It was in him.

In the way he moved. The way his voice could soften or steady me without even trying. He didn’t just carry calm—he created it. Like I could step into his presence and finally set everything else down.

So I make my way down the hall to the living room.

The fire’s mostly embers now—low and pulsing orange, shadows flickering like lullabies across the walls.

And then I see him.

Cal.

Asleep on the couch.

Too long for it, just like I thought he’d be. One arm resting heavy across his stomach, the other curled under a pillow. His legs stretch off the edge, one socked foot braced against the armrest. He looks… peaceful.

In a way that shouldn’t make sense for someone who carries so much. Who lives like he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He’s beautiful in sleep, too.

So quiet. So still.

Like something in him knows I’m here. Like he doesn’t have to be on guard tonight.

I stay where I am for a beat. Just watching. Heart too full, too sore, too soft to hold.

And then I move.

Not to him. I wouldn’t dare.

I just ease into the recliner across from him. The quilt he gave me wrapped tight around my shoulders, the hem of his shirt brushing my thighs like a secret.

I curl in as small as I can get. Where I can see him, if I need to.

Where I can sleep.

And I do, not because I’m tired, but because I’m no longer afraid to rest.

And I do—within minutes. Like my body finally understands it doesn’t have to be on high alert anymore.

Because I’m near him.

Because I’m safe.

CAL

She moves.

I hear it before I’m even fully awake.

Not loud. Not frantic. Just soft padding across the floorboards. The subtle shift of weight. A door creaking open with the kind of care only someone gentle would give it.

I don’t open my eyes.

Don’t need to. I know it’s her.

I track every step in the quiet, the faint swish of fabric, the hush of fabric settling, like she’s wrapping herself in quiet certainty. She pauses in the doorway to the living room—I feel her hesitation, the way it catches like breath in her chest—and then she steps forward.

Slow.

I keep my breathing even. Not pretending to sleep. Just… not intruding. Not yet.

Because this?

This is something sacred.

She doesn’t come to me.

Doesn’t speak.

She just settles.

The recliner creaks softly beneath her, the kind of weight a person makes when they’re trying to take up as little space as possible.

I can hear the pull of the blanket, the shift of her knees as she curls in, the quietest exhale.

And for a second, all I can picture is how small she looks curled into that chair.

Tucked into my quilt, wearing my clothes, her knees drawn close—it hits me deep.

Makes something low and protective curl tight in my gut.

Like I want to stand guard over this moment for the rest of my life.

And then—nothing.

Just stillness.

The kind that only comes when someone feels safe.

I let my eyes open.

Just a sliver.

And there she is. Curled up in the chair across from me.

Her face soft, eyelashes fanned against her cheek.

My quilt pulled up to her chin, the edges of my shirt visible beneath it—the sleeves swallow her wrists, the collar dips low—and I think I’ve never seen anything that looked more like it belonged to me.

It hits me like a punch to the chest.

This small, breakable girl asleep in my cabin.

Wearing my clothes.

Wrapped in something I gave her.

Too afraid to ask to be close… and needing it anyway.

God.

I’ve seen war. I’ve watched men die. I’ve made them die. I’ve stood in blood and fire and ruin more times than I can count.

But this?

This undoing?

This quiet surrender?

It unravels something in me I didn’t know was still holding on.

She doesn’t even know what she’s doing.

How could she?

She just needed to be near.

And instead of asking, she curled up within reach. Where she could see me. Where she could sleep.

Like she feels it too.

Like she knows.

The closeness hums in the space between us. Not touch, not words—just the steady presence of her. And it hits me low and deep, like gravity. Like an ache I've missed until now.

I don’t move.

I couldn’t if I tried.

I just watch her. Quiet. Reverent.

She’ll never have to ask for closeness again.

Not with me.

Not ever.

I don’t sleep, not really. But I do rest. Eyes closed, breath even, body still. But not asleep. Not while she’s in the room. Not when I can hear the quiet rhythm of her breathing, the small shifts of her weight beneath the blanket.

She doesn’t stir much.

Just once or twice—tiny movements, soft exhalations. Like she’s learning, even in sleep, that it’s okay to let go.

I stay where I am.

I don’t touch her. Don’t speak. Don’t give in to the ache that’s lodged somewhere beneath my ribs—the one that wants to gather her up, press my lips to her temple, and promise her everything.

She’s already done the hard part.

She came to me.

That’s enough.

By the time the first pale threads of morning light slip through the trees, I’m already up. I move slow, careful. I don’t want to wake her.

The fire’s gone out, but the coals are still warm. I stoke them gently, add a few small logs, and coax the heat back to life. The kettle goes on next—quiet and practiced. I pour a glass of water for myself, then another, just in case she wants one when she wakes.

And then I return to her.

Still curled in the recliner, my quilt tucked around her shoulders, one arm wrapped beneath her cheek. The shirt she’s wearing has slipped slightly at the collar, revealing the curve of her shoulder.

She’s beautiful like this.

Undone. Unshielded.

I kneel beside her. One hand braced on the armrest, the other gentle against the fold of the blanket. I don’t rush. I just watch her for a moment—long enough to feel the rise and fall of her breath.

Then I reach for her hand.

Her fingers are tucked beneath her chin, so I go gently.

I slip my thumb along the back of her hand and lift it just enough to bring her knuckles to my mouth.

I kiss them.

Soft.

Barely a whisper. Like I’m grounding myself in the one place I want to stay anchored. Her skin, warm beneath my mouth, feels like home… like something I’ll protect with everything I’ve got.

Her eyelids flutter, slow and unsure, and I murmur it before she can open her eyes all the way.

“Good morning, sweet girl.”

The words come out quieter than I expect. Softer. Because they matter. Because I get to say them to her, to be the first voice she hears, the one anchoring her to morning and peace.

She blinks.

Then blinks again.

And when her gaze finally finds mine, sleepy and full of something I don’t dare name, I see it.

That softness.

That trust.

Like maybe she’s not dreaming. Like maybe she’s starting to believe this is real.

While I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.