Page 65

Our foreheads stay touching, still wrapped around each other in the quiet.

No one speaks.

There’s no rush to.

Because we’re both still listening—to the silence inside the cabin, yes, but also to the silence inside us.

The one that finally feels safe again.

Finally feels full.

Cal turns with me still in his arms. The floor creaks softly beneath his boots, and my weight shifts closer against his chest, snug and certain, like I’m meant to be carried by him like this.

He takes the few slow steps toward the couch and eases down, sinking into the cushions with me wrapped around him. His body molds to the shape of the seat, to the shape of me—like nothing else fits quite right unless I’m there.

I stay straddled over his lap, knees tucked in beside his hips, arms looped around his neck.

He doesn’t let go.

Not even a little.

His hands move to my face, thumbs brushing the skin just beneath my eyes. The slow sweep of his touch steadies me, easing something raw in my chest. Like his hands are telling me it’s over, I’m safe, and he’s here.

And then he tips his forehead against mine again. Eyes steady, voice low and worn and soft enough to split me wide.

“Hi, baby.”

It’s nothing and everything.

I make a sound—part laugh, part sob—and lean into him like I want to disappear inside that voice.

He kisses me.

Rough at first, like he’s been starved for it. Then slower. Like he can’t believe he has the time.

One hand slips to the back of my neck, cradling me there. I soften into it, a quiet breath catching in my throat as I lean into the warmth and steadiness of his hold, like I’ve been waiting for this anchor all along. The other stays curved at my cheekbone, holding me still while he drinks me in.

I kiss him back with everything I’ve got.

Every silent ache. Every breath I didn’t take while he was gone.

His lips part against mine, and I whisper it.

“I love you.”

The moment I say it, he stills. Like it’s the first time he’s hearing it all over again.

His breath catches between us. His hand tightens, just a little, at the back of my neck. Like it knocked the air out of him.

He leans in again.

Kisses me slow this time. Like I’m something sacred.

When he pulls back, his eyes are darker. Brighter. Wrecked and steady all at once.

He brushes his thumb over my lower lip, gaze never leaving mine.

And then he says it.

Low.

Rough.

Quiet like prayer.

“I love you too.”

Just that.

Just me.

I exhale shakily, pressing my forehead to his. My fingers curl in the fabric at his shoulders.

His hand lowers between us.

For a second, I think he’s just pulling me closer, but then I feel it: the brush of cool metal in his palm. He draws something out of his jacket pocket, the movement slow, careful.

It’s the compass.

The one he never let go of, but decided I was worthy of holding it. And before he left, I quietly shifted it back to him. A reminder to come home.

He presses it gently into my hand, closing my fingers around it like it means more than words could hold.

“It’s always pointed here,” he says softly, thumb brushing the back of my knuckles. “I just didn’t know it until you.”

He wraps his arms around me again—tighter now. Like I’m the center of something he thought he’d lost.

“Got you,” he murmurs, mouth brushing my temple. “Always got you, baby.”

And I let go of the last of the fear.

Right there, in his arms.

I shift in his lap.

Just enough to lean back—but even that takes effort. His arms are locked around me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he loosens his grip.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper.

And he does—slowly, reluctantly—let me lean away. But not far.

His hands stay on my thighs, warm and wide and anchoring.

I study his face first.

The faint stubble along his jaw. The shadows under his eyes. The shadows under his eyes, the lines etched deeper than before—marks that speak of what he’s carried back with him.

I cup his cheeks in both hands. Let my thumbs trace the roughness there.

Then I move lower.

Over his shoulders, down his chest. Feeling the way his ribs move with each breath. How tightly he’s wound beneath the softness of his flannel.

When I reach his hands, I still.

His knuckles are bruised. The skin cracked in places, rubbed raw.

I swallow hard.

Something fragile flickers through his eyes.

Like this is the part he didn’t want me to see.

I lift his hand gently.

Bring it to my lips.

Kiss each knuckle, one by one, so softly it feels like an apology I can’t speak.

Then I turn his palm over and press it to my cheek.

Close my eyes.

“Thank you,” I whisper, voice shaking. “For coming back to me.”

His other hand rises on instinct, cradling the side of my neck. His thumb strokes just beneath my ear.

“There was never a version where I didn’t.”

I nod, eyes still closed.

But a tear slips free anyway.

I keep his hand pressed to my cheek a moment longer.

His warmth seeps into my skin, his palm rough but steady.

Then I open my eyes. Look at him. And it hits me, all over again—what it means to have him here. Whole. Mine. My chest aches with it, like my heart is trying to catch up to the sight of him.

He’s watching me like he doesn’t know what to do with the tenderness in my touch. Like it’s undoing him inch by inch.

So I keep going.

I brush my fingers down his arms again. Let them rest at his wrists.

“Did you eat?” I ask softly.

He hesitates. A flicker of something unreadable crosses his face.

“I had something yesterday,” he says.

That doesn’t count.

I don’t press, but I let my disapproval show—just a little—by the way I slide my hands back to his face, thumbs stroking slow again.

“I made breakfast,” I say, voice hushed but firm. “It’s still warm.”

His gaze softens. Drops to my mouth. Then back to my eyes.

And he nods.

“Alright, baby.”

He shifts forward, stands up with me still tucked close, and carries me back to the kitchen.

When he steps in and sees it—the plate on the counter, the tea still warm in its mug—something in his whole body changes.

Like a slow breath he didn’t know he was holding finally exhales through his chest.

Like this… this is what he never thought he’d have again.

The tea. The light. The girl in his arms.

He sets me down gently on the counter stool, then sits across from me.

I reach for the fork. Cut a bite. Hold it up to his lips.

He doesn’t make a sound.

Just opens his mouth and lets me feed him.

Like it’s a gift.

Like he trusts me with the most vulnerable thing there is—his hunger.

I feed him another bite. And another.

And the whole time, he never looks away.

His eyes are pale steel. Cool gray. Quiet and soft and wrecked.

But in them, I see it.

The way he’s returning to me.

One breath at a time.

They finish the meal in silence.

Not strained—settled. Like there’s nothing left that needs to be filled but time and each other.

When he sets down his fork, I rise quietly from my stool. Take his hand.

He lets me lead him.

No words. Just trust.

The bathroom is still warm from the early morning sun filtering through the frosted window. I reach for the hem of his shirt, brushing my knuckles over his ribs in quiet permission.

He nods.

I lift it slowly over his head, baring the bruises and strain and scarred muscle beneath.

Then his belt. The button. The zipper. I undress him like I’m unwrapping something breakable. His breath hitches, a quiet shift in his chest, but he doesn’t stop me—just watches, steady and still, like the tension in his body is giving way only for me.

And then I undress myself.

His eyes never leave me, like he’s holding me up just by looking. Like I’m tethered to him by more than touch.

When I’m bare, I reach for him again.

Turn the water on warm, not hot. Let it steam.

Then I guide him in.

He follows.

The sound of the spray hitting tile fills the space between us. A hush that feels like rain. Like renewal.

I pick up the soap.

And I start at his collarbone.

I wash him slowly. Chest. Shoulders. Arms. Back. Letting the suds run down in rivulets. Letting my fingers follow.

Every place that held tension. Every place that struck a blow.

I don’t rush.

Because this is a ritual.

A clean slate.

A coming back.

His eyes close when I move to his hands. When I soap each bruised knuckle. When I lift his palms to the stream and rinse them clean.

He doesn’t speak.

But he leans into every touch.

And when I’m finished, I step closer, press my forehead to his wet chest, and breathe him in. His heart thuds slow and steady beneath my cheek, the heat of his skin sinking deep into mine, quieting something frantic inside me.

Just Cal.

Just mine.

We stay there, pressed together under the spray, for what feels like forever.

I breathe him in. The soap. The heat still rising off his skin.

His hands stay on my waist. Mine over his heart.

Then, quietly, I speak.

“Next, we rest.”

He lets out a sound—low and rough and wrecked.

It rumbles through his chest, deep against my cheek.

A laugh, but not a light one. It’s gutted. Disbelieving. Like I’ve just handed him something he never thought he’d be allowed to want.

I smile, first time since he left.

A real one.

He tilts his head down. “Is that so, little one?”

My voice is smaller now, but sure.

“Yes, Daddy.”

His breath stutters.

I feel it under my cheek. Feel it in the way his fingers flex at my sides.

Then something shifts.

Like a current pulling back to shore.

Like a center realigning.

He moves with purpose now.

Reaches behind me. Turns the knob until the stream cuts off, leaving only the sound of water dripping down tile, the hush of steam cooling in the air.

He grabs a towel.

Dries me first.

Gently, methodically. Over my shoulders, around my waist, down my legs. Kneeling to pat each foot in turn. Every move is deliberate. Focused. Like nothing else exists in this moment but me—and making sure I feel his care in every inch of it. Like this is his duty. His peace.

And I feel it.

Feel him coming back into himself.

Into the rhythm of us.

By the time he rises again, towel in hand, I’m not just clean.

I’m anchored.

And when his eyes meet mine, they’re steadier now.

Softer.

Daddy is home.

He lifts me into his arms again once we’re dry, the way he always does.

I melt into him without hesitation, arms looped loosely around his neck, head tucked beneath his jaw. He carries me down the hall, into the bedroom, and the light through the curtains is gold and soft, like the whole cabin knows what this means.

Peace, at last.

He pulls back the quilt and settles onto the bed with me curled against his chest, skin to skin. The sheets are cool, but his body is warm—solid, and strong. His skin hums with quiet strength, and every breath he draws seems to slow the world around us.

And I try.

I try to let go.

To rest.

But something in me doesn’t quite release.

I feel his breath at the top of my head.

“Tell me, baby.”

His voice is quiet. Low. A brush of gravel against my temple.

I stiffen. Just for a second.

He feels it.

“It’s still sitting with you, isn’t it?” he murmurs.

Not a question.

Just a knowing.

I nod. Barely. Just enough that he feels it.

“I meant every word I said, Emmy.”

His voice is quiet and sure. Holding everything in place.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. You were scared. And you ran because you love. That tells me more about your heart than anything else could.”

A tear slips from the corner of my eye and soaks into his chest.

“But,” he adds, voice still warm, “I see it. That it’s still hurting.”

He lifts his hand, cups the side of my face again.

“There’ll be a consequence, little one. Just like I said. Not because I’m angry. Not because you failed. Just… to remind you.”

His thumb brushes over my temple.

“That you’re safe now. That you’re mine. And that I’ll always come home to you.”

I nod again.

This time with my whole body.

I believe him.

And the tension, the last stubborn thread of guilt twisted up in my ribs, finally lets go.

I sigh into his chest. Nuzzle closer.

He wraps both arms around me and tucks the quilt higher.

“Rest now,” he murmurs into my hair. “That’s all you need to do.”

And I do.

For the first time since he left.

The room is warm and hushed. Just the steady hum of the baseboard heater, the occasional creak of wood settling deep into its bones.

I feel the weight of the day falling away, second by second.

Cal holds me close, arms wrapped fully around me now, one hand curled at the back of my head, the other stroking slowly up and down my spine.

His touch never stops. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t press.

Just reminds me.

That I’m safe.

That he’s home.

The dogs leap up one by one—first Cleo, who curls into the crook behind my knees like she’s been waiting her whole life for this moment. Then Luca, heavier and slower, settles at Cal’s feet with a soft, protective grunt. His chin drops between his paws. His tail thumps once against the mattress.

Cal doesn’t move them.

Doesn’t flinch.

He just lets them stay.

Lets all of us stay.

My fingers curl into the flannel stretched across his chest. His heart is slower now. Quieter.

Like mine.

I shift a little closer. Press my mouth to the side of his neck.

“Love you,” I whisper.

A breath, not even meant to be heard.

But he hears it anyway.

His hand slides into my hair instead, fingertips grazing my scalp before resting there—firm and warm and grounding. I lean into it without thinking, instinctive and small, like my body recognizes the gesture before my mind does. His lips graze my temple.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs. “I love you too.”

And that’s the last thing I remember before sleep finally takes me—

Safe.

Held.

Home.