Page 31

CAL

She’s still asleep when I open my eyes. Her weight is a soft pressure against my side, anchoring me in a way nothing else does. Like she belongs there. Like I do, too.

Curled small against me, one hand tucked under her cheek, her breath slow and even.

She hasn’t flinched. Hasn’t stirred.

She’s safe.

And she let me hold her through the night.

I take a breath and let it root deep, slow and quiet, like the start of something steady. The kind I haven’t taken in a long time.

She’s wearing my shirt. And fuck, if that doesn’t do something to me.

Not just want—but claim. Like she’s mine in some old, primal way.

Like this is how it’s supposed to be. The sight stirs something deep and steady—like a thread of need twisted tight with protectiveness.

It makes me want to wrap her tighter, keep her there forever.

Feed her, shield her, make sure she never has to sleep without this kind of warmth again.

Blankets are tangled around her legs, her hair soft and wild against my arm. She looks like she belongs here—like this bed has always known her.

And for the first time in years, I didn’t dream.

Didn’t wake up gasping or sweating or reaching for a weapon I’ve sworn not to use.

I just slept.

Because she was beside me.

Because she was okay.

She shifts a little, the barest movement. A sigh slips out of her. Her lashes flutter, and I feel it the second she wakes—feel it in the way her body tightens just slightly before softening again.

She doesn’t bolt.

Doesn’t pull away.

She settles.

Like she knows I’m still here.

And Christ, that does something to me.

I murmur against her hair. “You awake, little one?”

She nods. Just a tiny brush of motion.

“Mm.” I kiss the side of her head. “You sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” she whispers.

It’s the kind of voice that makes a man want to build her a world she never has to whisper in again.

“You felt good in my arms,” I say. Because it’s true. Because I need her to know it.

She doesn’t answer. But I feel her soften.

And when I roll just enough to see her face, to cup her cheek, to brush my thumb beneath the shadows of her eyes, I know I’ll never forget this moment.

She looks so young like this.

Not in age.

In tenderness.

In trust.

And it guts me.

“First time I’ve slept all the way through in years,” I tell her.

Her eyes widen slightly. Her lips part.

But she doesn’t speak.

So I pull her in again. Let her rest her head against my chest. Let her listen to the beat that’s steady because of her.

“We’ll start slow today,” I murmur. “Breakfast. Fire. You stay close.”

I kiss her forehead.

My voice drops lower.

“I want to take care of you right.” The words feel heavier than anything I’ve said in years, like they’re being pulled from somewhere older than memory. It’s not just promise—it’s purpose. And saying them out loud settles something low in my gut, fierce and steady.

She shudders against me, just a little.

And I know she feels it too.

The shift.

The promise.

She doesn’t say anything.

But she doesn’t let go.

She’s still tucked against my chest, her head rising and falling with each breath I take.

I don’t rush her.

Don’t speak.

Just keep her close.

My hand strokes along her spine, grounding her in every way I know how.

Then she shifts.

Just a little.

Pulls back enough to see me.

Her eyes search mine, and God—they’re so open it hurts.

Like she doesn’t know she’s allowed to look at someone like this. Like she’s bracing for whatever comes next.

Her voice is soft. Almost not there.

“You really want me here?”

A burn rises behind my eyes before I can stop it, sharp and sudden, like the air’s been knocked out of me. My heart stumbles.

Not from surprise.

From grief.

Because the way she says it—it’s not flirtation. It’s not fishing.

It’s real. Like no one’s ever said yes to her and meant it.

I cup her cheek. My thumb sweeps under her eye, catching the faintest trace of sleep and sadness.

“There’s nothing I’ve ever wanted more.”

She blinks up at me, then her lip wobbles, and she leans in—not hesitantly, but like she’s afraid she’ll break if she doesn’t. There’s the faintest tremble in her fingers where they clutch the blanket, and I feel the whole world narrow to this one breath between us.

Her lips brush mine—soft and unsure, but full of feeling. No performance. No caution.

Just her.

And God, I feel it everywhere.

I don’t push. Don’t deepen it.

I just stay.

Let her kiss me like it means something. Because it does. She’s choosing this—choosing me—not because she has to, but because she wants to. And God, that undoing feels bigger than any vow I’ve ever made.

When she pulls back, her face is flushed, eyes bright.

I tuck her closer again, cradling the back of her head.

“You’re not going anywhere,” I murmur.

And I feel her sigh against my chest.

A sound like trust.

Like home.

EMMY

I don’t know how long we stay like that.

Folded together.

His breath at the crown of my head, one hand slow on my back, the other cradling my thigh like he’s afraid I might slip away if he lets go.

But eventually, the smell of the fire—and the low rumble of my stomach, sudden and embarrassing—draws us into motion. I duck my head, cheeks heating.

Cal hears it, of course. Of course he does. And he doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease.

He just reaches out, brushes his knuckles gently down my arm, and murmurs, "Let’s get you fed, sweet girl."

He kisses the top of my head one more time—so gently it almost undoes me—then shifts out from under the blankets.

His warmth leaves in a rush, and the air feels sharper in its absence. My skin prickles, not from cold but from the sudden loss of him. I pull the quilt tighter around myself, already missing the weight and heat of his body next to mine.

I sit up slowly, wrapping the quilt tighter around my shoulders, watching him move.

He doesn’t ask if I want breakfast. He just starts.

Not like it’s a chore. Not like it’s a favor.

Like it’s a given.

Like waking up beside me means making sure I’m fed.

Like it’s something he just does—without question, without conditions. It feels rare. Strange. Safe in a way I don’t have words for. Like maybe this is what it means to be cared for, in the quiet way I never dared to want.

I hear the sound of the skillet pulled from the hook near the stove. The clink of eggs against the edge of the pan. The soft hiss of butter meeting cast iron. And the occasional whistle of the kettle building toward a boil.

The whole cabin smells like morning.

Like salt and smoke and something warm enough to make you believe in second chances.

Cal doesn’t talk much while he cooks, but he glances over every few minutes. Just to make sure I’m still there. Still okay.

And every time I catch his gaze, I feel steadier.

He sets two plates on the table—eggs, toast, a few slices of apple. Simple. Thoughtful.

But he doesn’t stop there.

He crouches near the woodstove, opens a lower cupboard I hadn’t even noticed before, and pulls out two small metal bowls.

I blink.

I know what he’s doing before I see the food.

A spoon scrapes softly inside a second pan, one he must’ve had going already on the back burner.

He scoops out something soft—eggs, chopped bits of cooked meat, even a few green beans—and divides it between the bowls.

Stirs.

And places one in front of each dog, murmuring something to Luca and Cleo like they’re part of the conversation.

I cover my mouth.

The sob doesn’t rise with sound—it swells quietly, pressing thick against the back of my throat. In a way that catches my breath and forces an exhale all at once.

No one’s ever done that before. Not even thought to.

He made them breakfast.

Because they’re mine.

Because he knew they’d need it too.

It's too much and stunning all at once, him knowing.

I swallow hard, tears prickling behind my eyes. I blink them away as he rises again, comes to sit beside me at the table like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Eggs okay?” he asks.

I nod. My throat’s too tight to speak just yet.

He watches me for a beat. Doesn’t press. Just reaches over, squeezes my knee under the table.

“Eat slow,” he says. “You’ve got time.”

And I believe him.

We eat mostly in silence.

But it isn’t the uncomfortable kind.

It’s warm. Steady. I take small bites. Sip slowly at the tea he made—just the way I like it. Not because I asked. Because he knew.

He eats with one hand, the other occasionally drifting—brushing his fingers across my knee beneath the table, adjusting the quilt around my shoulders when it slips, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear like it’s second nature now.

Every small thing he does anchors me more.

Cleo and Luca eat contentedly near the hearth, tails thumping the floor every so often. Cal murmurs to them under his breath as he clears the pans—little nothings, gentle and low. I can’t hear all the words, but it makes me smile. Then, he makes his way back to me.

He sits beside me. Close, not crowding. His knee brushes mine beneath the table.

But I know something’s coming.

I can feel it in the way Cal moves. Not sharp.

Not withdrawn. Just… measured. Like he’s walking a line he doesn’t want to cross too fast. His shoulders stay loose, but there’s a deliberate calm to the way he clears the dishes, wipes the counter.

Every movement is careful. Controlled. Like he’s giving me time.

Like he’s readying the space between us for something he won’t rush me through.

When I finish the last bite, I set the fork down slowly, unsure of what to do with my hands.

Cal notices.

He always does.

His hand comes to rest over mine.

Still warm from his mug. Still firm.

“You did good, sweet girl,” he says, quiet.

That phrase…

It goes straight to my chest. Something shifts inside—tight, then yielding—before it softens into something deeper.

I glance up at him, unsure if I can speak without breaking.

But I manage it.

“Thank you.”

He tilts his head slightly.

“For breakfast?”