Page 45 of Stolen Harmony

“What about you?” he asked, voice rougher now. “Did you ever let yourself love someone, after she was gone?”

I shook my head. “I think I forgot how. Or maybe I never learned. Every time I get close, it feels like stealing something that doesn’t belong to me.”

His grip on my thigh tightened, and I gasped.

“That’s grief talking,” he said, fierce now. “Not truth. You deserve more than memories and regret.”

I scoffed, trying for humor and failing. “Sure. Sign me up for the ‘well-adjusted human’ package.”

“You deserve to be wanted,” Kepler pressed, ignoring the joke. “To be cared for. To have someone fight for you instead of walking away when things get complicated.”

“I guess.” The words were weak, but they slipped out anyway.

Kepler stood slowly, his hand sliding from my thigh with deliberate reluctance. “There’s something I want to show you,” he said, his voice low. “Something that belonged to your mother.”

He held out his hand, palm up, waiting. An invitation I could take or leave.

I took his hand.

His fingers closed around mine, warm and callused, and he led me through the cottage toward the back hallway.The floorboards creaked under our feet, and I was hyperaware of everything—the way his shoulders moved as he walked ahead of me, the heat of his palm against mine, the way my heart was beating so hard I was sure he could hear it.

The bedroom was small, dominated by a double bed with a weathered wooden headboard. Afternoon light filtered through gauze curtains, casting everything in golden hues. The space smelled like him—salt and cedar and something warm and masculine that made my head spin.

“Here,” he said, releasing my hand to open the top drawer of an old dresser. But he didn't move away immediately. Instead, he stood close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his bare back, close enough that if I lifted my hand, I could trace the line of that old scar across his ribs.

He pulled out a small jewelry box, worn velvet faded with age. “She gave this to me before the wedding,” he said, turning to face me. “Said she wanted someone in the family to have it, someone who would understand what it meant.”

The space between us had shrunk to mere inches. I could see the pulse jumping in his throat, could count the silver threads in his chest hair, could feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek as he opened the box.

Inside was a simple gold locket, tarnished with age.

“She said it was her grandmother's,” Kepler continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “Said she'd always meant to give it to you, but she was waiting for the right moment.”

His fingers brushed mine as he lifted the locket from its cushion, the contact sending electricity up my arm. “She wanted you to have something that connected you to the family. To her. To all of us.”

“It is beautiful.”

“Try it on,” he said, moving behind me. “Let me help.”

I felt the cool metal of the chain against my throat as he lifted it over my head, his fingers brushing the nape of my neck as he settled it into place. His touch lingered there, thumb tracing the edge of my hairline in a caress that made me shiver.

“Perfect,” he murmured, breath warm against my ear. “She would have loved seeing you wear it.”

The locket settled against my chest, and suddenly we were too close—close enough that I could see the darker flecks in his eyes, the way his smile lines deepened when he looked at me, the steady rhythm of his breath just inches from my own.

“Kepler,” I whispered, not sure what I was asking for—permission, distance, something I couldn’t name.

His hands came up, gentle as they framed my face, his thumbs brushing just under my jaw. “I know,” he said softly.

I looked around—realized with a jolt how intimate this all was. Kepler’s room. The bed behind me was unmade, still carrying the warmth of his sleep, the comfort of a life that had gone on, steady and grounded, long before I’d ever stumbled into it.

He saw my hesitation, the way I lingered awkwardly at the edge of the room. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week,” he said, voice low and rough with concern. “You can rest here if you want. The bed’s already warm. I won’t bother you.”

Part of me wanted to bolt—run from how easy it was to imagine sinking into that bed, his scent on the sheets, the hush of quiet safety. But exhaustion tugged at my bones, heavier than pride.

“I—thanks,” I managed, voice hoarse. “I haven’t... I don’t really sleep well these days.”

Kepler gave a small, understanding nod. “You don’t have to explain yourself, Rowan.” He gestured to the bed. “It’s just a nap. No strings, no expectations.”