“The one where you fold yourself into whatever shape you think will hurt the least.”
“I just want things to stop being so hard,” I say quietly. “For once. I’m really tired, Wells. Of trying to please people who aren’t here. Of waking up with dread in my throat. Of thinking if I can get it right this time—if I fix one more thing—then maybe I’ll finally deserve the quiet I keep chasing.”
He doesn’t answer at first. His gaze stays steady, but his jaw works like he’s biting back words. “Making a rash decision,” he murmurs finally, “isn’t going to stop you from being tired.”
“What is, then?”
“You have to stop looking for the exit and start looking for the way through. Don’t . . . burn yourself out to keep everyone else warm. If the trust is still what you want when the storm passes, then we’ll figure out the next steps.”
For a moment, I hate him for saying it. For making it sound so simple when nothing has been. I want to argue, to spit something sharp in return. But I can’t because part of me knows he’s not wrong.
I’ve been running on empty for so long I don’t know what standing still looks like. I don’t know how to stay. Not really. But God, I wish I did.
My throat tightens. I force a breath through it.
“Okay,” I say. “Have it your way.”
We stand there like that, candlelight flickering between us, the cold creeping under the floorboards. There’s so much left tosay, so much we’ll have to untangle. But tonight, I’m finished fighting. The house has made its displeasure known, and I’m not risking a second warning.
I glance toward the hearth. “Think we can get a fire going?”
“We can definitely try.”
He kneels to check the flue. I crumple newspaper. He stacks kindling. I hold the lantern low as he sparks the tinder. The first flame wavers. The second finds nerve. By the third, the kindling finally catches.
“Congratulations,” I say, lowering the lantern. “We lit a fire.”
“Good going, team.”
He drags the iron screen into place and then settles onto the couch. I sink beside him; the springs sigh under my weight. Hemingway materializes, claiming the warm hollow behind my neck.
The fire snaps. A knot pops. Wells props his feet on the table and watches the flames with soft reverence. The kind of gaze you give a thing you love.
Oh, what I’d give for him to look at me that way, even just once.
“My heart dropped when the power went,” I tell him. “Straight through the floorboards and down into the crawlspace.”
“Afraid of the dark?”
“Yes,” I say. “Mock away.”
“I’d never,” he murmurs, then bites his lip like he very much might. “Okay, maybe a little.”
“I was left alone a lot when I was younger. Dark meant no one was coming. I know that’s not what it means now, but ...”
“Noted,” he says gruffly. “I won’t say a word.”
I nudge Hemingway’s ridiculous haunch with my fingertip. “This cat has no such associations. He thinks darkness exists only so he can ambush people.”
“Public menace,” Wells says. “Five to ten for his crimes.”
“Probation for cuteness.”
He watches me skim my fingers along the cat’s fur. “You did fine when you came looking for me.”
“Fine?”
“You didn’t curl up in the fetal position,” he says. “You found light first and headed for the door. That’s a little brave.”
