As I head toward the door, I catch her muttering behind me, “Tell Steve I said good morning.”
“Jericho, Grandma,” I call back. But I’m laughing as I step out into the chilly morning air.
The world is quiet. Pale blue light stretches across the sky, the kind of stillness that only exists before the rest of the world wakes up. The snow is deep and stiff, but my boots are thick enough to go through what little fell over the wee hours of morning—everything else has been cleared by the thoughtful man next door.
Pausing in front of the invisible line separating our land, I take a deep breath and cross that barrier I’ve built for myself.
And there he is.
Not Jericho.
The rooster.
He struts through the yard like he pays taxes. Head high. Tail feathers bouncing. Unbothered by boundaries, like always. I envy the creature.
I glance at him, shaking my head. “Morning, cockblocker.”
He crows in something close to an agreement, like he knows exactly what he is. I probably should make an attempt to catch him, but I’m too tired, and he’s too fast. I’ll probably end up face first in a mountain of snow and no one will ever find me.
Flipping the bird off, I decide to leave the catching game for another day when I have more energy and less brain fog.
When I reach Jericho’s porch, I pause. Not because I’m nervous. Okay—yes, I am. A little. After last night, I don’t know where we stand. That evening of revelations was too much for my already overwhelmed brain after the day we had. We didn’t talk about feelings. Didn’t kiss goodbye. We didn’t do anything earth-shattering really.
Except… we did. Being in the same space and then witnessing him going off like that to defend my honor feels like a big step for my untrusting mind.
I knock twice. The door creaks open after a second, and there he is. Jericho, not the rooster.
Sleep-rumpled. Barefoot. Wearing a long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants, with his damp hair making him look even more disheveled. He blinks at me like I’m not real.
“I brought coffee,” I say with a shy smile, holding out the thermos.
He stares at it.Then at me. “Why?”
I blink, losing a bit of the bravado I had when I left my house. “Because it’s morning?”
He runs a hand over his face. “You know I’m bad at this.”
“At mornings?”
“At… people. This. Whatever this is.”
I take a small step closer, still holding the thermos. “It’s just coffee, Jericho.”
He mutters something like a curse and takes it from me, brushing my fingers when he does. His hands are rough and warm. just like I remember them from yesterday.
“Thanks,” he mumbles, already retreating inside.
I follow without asking, stepping into the kitchen where everything looks the same as last night—but feels different. I’ve been in this space with its rightful owner rubbing my feet. Am I allowed to be more relaxed here now?
Feeling a little braver when he doesn’t stop me, I open a couple of cabinets till I find the mugs and grab one. I fill a cup to the brim and pass it to him.
Leaning against the counter, he starts sipping the coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. He doesn’t look at me, and I don’t press. Besides, what would I ask?Are you going to keep me as you promised?
Outside the window, I spot the rooster pecking around. What he is looking at deep in the snow besides his demise is beyond my understanding.
“Your chicken’s back,” Jericho says without looking up from the floor.
“He’s not mine.”
