“That’s not fair.” The windows moan under another gust. One of the lanterns flickers out. “I didn’t do it to hurt you.”
“I know,” he says. “But you still did.”
I’m not sure how to fix this. Last week, things between us were almost easy. We talked, we worked, we managed. Now, everything feels off-balance again.
It makes me want to scream, to cry, to run, which somehow feels worse than all of it.
“I’m going to make tea,” I mumble, already halfway out of the parlor.
It’s cowardly, and I know it. But the air in there was getting too thin, and if I’d stayed, I would’ve said something I couldn’ttake back. So, I take the out. My bare feet find the kitchen floorboards, familiar and creaking.
The house meets me there.
The lights warm before I flip the switch. The kettle hums before it’s filled. A breath of heat stirs from the radiator, even though I haven’t touched it. And the smell—orange peel, woodsmoke—slips out from the pantry. Something gentle to remind me to breathe.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the house. “I didn’t mean to make everything worse.”
The lights pulse. One long blink, then steady again.
“Okay, you’re right.” I open the drawer for a teaspoon, and the handle feels warm against my palm. “I know it’s all my fault.”
The only reply is the groan of wind and the rattle of the panes. A shutter bangs once, twice, impatient. The kettle boils, shrill. I pour too much water into my mug and forget the honey. Still, I hold the cup in both hands and let the steam rise against my face.
Behind me, a doorframe cracks under pressure.
Then, “Goddammit, Elsie—”
I startle so hard I nearly drop the mug. Wells stands in the doorway, damp around the collar, eyes bright with anger. His shoulder presses into the frame. It’s like he caught himself there mid-stride.
“You can’t just hide away and retreat every time something doesn’t go your way,” he says. “You told me you were done running from your problems. Well, look at you now.”
“You want me to apologize again, is that it?”
“I want you to stop acting like I’m something you have to sneak around. Not just now, but all week. You’ve been hiding.”
I glare at him. “I figured you didn’t want to talk to me.”
“Of course I do,” he says, stepping farther in. His voice rises. “But I’m tired, Elsie. You keep making decisions that mess withme, and I don’t know what to do with that. Not when there are times you—” He cuts off, jaw tight.
“That I what?”
“That you look at me like you want nothing more than for me to put my lips on yours.”
I gasp, and his gaze drops to my mouth.
He doesn’t move as he watches me, breath rough at the edges. I think he’s dared himself to say it, and now he’s waiting to see what I’ll do. But I can’t seem to move, either. My pulse climbs. My fingers twitch on the mug’s handle.
“I know you want it, too,” he says, voice lower now. “You’re not very good at hiding it.”
I stare at him. The curve of his mouth, the small freckle at his jaw, the way his hands flex like he’s holding himself back.
He’s right. I do want it. I want it so badly it hurts sometimes.
I never thought he’d say it out loud. Not when we both know nothing real can come from it. Not when every inch I give to him takes me further from the clean goodbye I’m supposed to make.
I’m going to tell him that he’s wrong to start this now. That we’d ruin each other if we tried. But before I can form the words, a sharp, violent crash cuts through the house.
He swears under his breath and turns toward the sound.
