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EMMY

I wake all at once.

Not gently.

Not with a yawn or a stretch. But with the kind of jolt that comes from realizing the other side of the couch is still cold. The cold finds me fast—sharp against my skin, settling deep into the hollow behind my knees, where his warmth used to be.

I sit up too fast. The quilt slides off my shoulders.

The fire’s faded to a soft glow, embers tucked beneath a veil of ash.

The clock reads just after five. The fire’s burned down to soft embers. The sky outside is the color of slate—just before dawn.

And I’m alone.

My hand reaches instinctively for where he was, where his chest held me through the quiet. But all I find is warmth fading into cool.

No heartbeat, no breath. Just me.

The loneliness scrapes through my whole being, hollow and loud, and the quilt slumps from my shoulders.

His flannel shirt hangs loose on my frame, the sleeves trailing past my fingers. The fabric is soft with wear, brushing against my skin like the memory of his touch—warm, familiar, too big in all the ways that make me feel small and his.

He didn’t wake me, didn’t say goodbye. Just left like he said he would.

Just for a while, he said.

But my chest tightens anyway.

Because even though I knew—even though he told me—nothing prepared me for how empty the house would feel without him in it. Like something essential slipped out with him—leaving the space too still, too sharp around the edges.

I pace to the stove, poke at the logs.

The dogs are still asleep, peaceful and unaware. I envy them.

I check the clock. It’s past five. He’s been gone a long time, all night.

I pull his flannel tighter around me and cross to the window to push the curtain aside.

Nothing. Not yet.

I whisper it like a prayer.

Please come back.

I press my hand to the frame and wait. The minutes stretch thin. And just when I feel like I might come apart—

Headlights.

Soft. Familiar. No rush.

His truck.

My eyes fly to the door and I rush toward it, but I stop. Just barely. Because if I open it now, I’ll run to him barefoot, wrapped in nothing but his shirt and fear.

So I wait, teeth biting down on my lip, heart racing, breath in my throat.

Come back to me.

I hear the engine cut, the driver’s door open. Boots crunching on gravel, then nothing. Just silence.

I stay frozen at the door, my hand hovering over the knob.

What if he needs a minute?

What if he’s not ready to be touched yet?

What if some part of him is still there—in that shadowed place he went for me?

I press my forehead to the wood. Breathe slow.

Wait.

Then the latch turns, and I stumble back a step as the door opens.

And he’s there.

Shadowed by the early morning light, damp at the collar from mist, he smells like cold metal and pine, something sharp and clean that hits the back of my throat.

His breath is quiet—almost too quiet—like he’s still holding it in.

The black of his clothes making him look even more carved out of something elemental.

But it’s his eyes that do it.

They land on me, and something in him breaks.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t breathe, even.

Just moves.

He closes the space between us in a heartbeat.His arms are around me, pulling me in. Crushing me to his chest, not gentle. Not careful.

Raw need.

I wrap my arms around his middle and bury my face in him, into the scent of cold air and sweat and something darker beneath.

He’s here.

He’s warm.

He’s safe.

He says my name like it’s the only thing holding him together.

“Emmy.”

I nod, eyes closed, chest tight.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I whisper. “I tried. I couldn’t—”

“I know,” he breathes. “I know, baby. I’m sorry. I’m here now.”

His hand slides into my hair, the other around my back. And for a long moment, we just stand there. Wrapped in each other, letting everything else fall away. His breath against my temple. My cheek pressed to the warmth just above his heart.

Then, gently—his voice barely above the hush between us, “I’m gonna shower, baby. Then I’ll be back for you.”

I nod.

Not because I want to let go, but because I understand. He presses a kiss to my forehead. Another to my hair. And steps away.

I watch him disappear down the hall.

The door closes softly behind him. The quiet left in his absence feels different now. Not empty, but heavier. Like the air’s waiting on me too.

I stand there for a long breath.

Then another.

Bare feet on the wood floor. His flannel still wrapped around me.

I should wait.

It’s what I told myself I would do. What I know he might need. But the pull toward him tugs low in my belly, soft and insistent. A wanting I can’t quiet. Not guilt, exactly. Just a quiet ache that says maybe, just this once, it’s okay to follow my heart instead of my fear.

Let him have his space.

Let him wash away whatever parts of himself he had to carry to do what he did.

But I don’t want to leave him alone in that silence. Not when I know what it feels like to be scrubbed raw by it.

So I move, soft and slow. I reach the door and press my fingers to the handle.

One heartbeat of hesitation.

Then I turn it.

The steam greets me first. Warm and thick and curling out like a breath released.

He’s under the spray.

Back to me.

Hands braced on the tile. Head bowed. Water pouring down his shoulders like it’s trying to rinse something deeper than skin. Muscles taut beneath it—broad and quiet with strength. The curve of his back is solemn, sculpted like stone softened by grief.

He doesn’t hear me at first. I let the flannel slip from my shoulders and fall to the floor, then step out of my underwear.

Then I step into the shower.

The moment he senses me, he turns. His eyes find mine, and for a breath, we just look. No words. Just the quiet recognition of what this is.

He starts to speak. “Baby—”

But I shake my head once, already reaching for the washcloth and the soap.

His hands stay at his sides.

Letting me.

Trusting me.

I touch his chest first. The water beads there. Warm, slick. His skin thrums beneath my fingers, solid, like sun-warmed oak beneath the rain.

I wash him in slow, reverent circles. His shoulders. His arms. His back. I catalogue every scar. Every place the world tried to take something from him and failed.

He watches me the whole time. Like he doesn’t know how I can do this, and maybe it’s breaking something in him to let me try.

And I just whisper, “Let me take care of you.”

His breath catches, but I don’t stop. I move lower. Over the curve of his ribs. The flat of his stomach.

And when I glance up again, when I see the storm behind his eyes trying not to rise—

I say it.

Softly.

“You don’t have to come back to me clean.”

The words make my throat ache. They feel too big for the space between us, too bare. But I don’t look away because I mean them. Every syllable steadies something inside me, even as it trembles through my chest.

His eyes close. Just for a second. As if I’ve said something he wasn’t ready to hear. Like I found the one place he hasn’t let the water touch.

And in that second—

He breaks.

Not with tears or words, but with the way his shoulders drop. The way his hand finds my wrist and holds it gently, like I’ve just put something back in him that he didn’t know was missing.

He doesn’t speak.

But I feel it in his touch.

In the way he lets me finish.

The silence between us isn’t heavy now.

It’s holy.

The water runs over us in ribbons. Warm, soft, fading slowly into something cooler. Peace settles in its place; not absence, not loss, but the quiet after the storm.

Neither of us moves to shut it off. Not yet.

His fingers are still around my wrist. Not tight, but just there, and I know he needs the contact. The tether.

So I keep washing him. And when I finally set the cloth aside, I look up at him. He's already looking at me like he’s memorizing every inch.

Not hungrily.

Not possessively.

Just… reverently.

His brow is furrowed slightly, mouth parted like he’s mid-prayer. His chest rises slow and shallow, like he’s afraid to even breathe too loud. Like he doesn’t know how I can be real.

Like he’s afraid that if he touches me too fast, I’ll vanish.

So I touch him first, stepping closer. My hands on his ribs, my cheek finding its place against his chest.

His arms come around me in the next breath, strong and steady, curling me in.

The water keeps falling.

But we’re already somewhere else.

Together.

He’s the one who turns the water off. Just a quiet reach behind me, the steam curling like smoke around our shoulders as the last of the spray fades.

The silence that follows is warm. Whole. It settles in my chest like the weight of his arms did—steadying, anchoring. Like I’m already where I belong.

He reaches for the towel and wraps it around my shoulders first, careful not to pull it too tight.

Then takes another for himself. We dry off in near silence, his eyes on me the whole time.

Not with want.

With worship.

He towels his hair dry last, then tosses the cloth aside and holds out his hand.

I take it.

Of course I take it.

He brings my knuckles to his lips. Kisses them once.

Then, quietly— “Come to bed with me.”

My breath catches.

Not because I’m afraid.

Because I’m ready. Because I’ve never wanted anything more.

I nod.

He doesn’t wait for words.

He lifts me.

Bridal-style. Like I weigh nothing, and carrying me is just what he does. His skin is warm and slick against mine, arms iron-strong and steady as they cradle me close. I can feel the thrum of his heart where my chest meets his, solid and sure.

My arms loop around his neck, my cheek pressing back into his shoulder.

He carries me down the hallway, every step slow and sure.

It’s not dark; the room is warm with soft shadows and those steady arms that always make me feel wanted. The quiet press of his breath against my temple.

He doesn’t rush, not a single step.

When we reach the bed, he sets me down with a care that makes my heart ache.