She didn’t buy it, but she didn’t press the issue. She poured herself another cup and leaned against the counter and glanced out the window. “You ever notice how quiet it gets after snow like that?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Too quiet sometimes.”
She smiled faintly. “You hate the quiet.”
“Only when I know it is lying.”
She frowned. “That’s cryptic, even for you.”
“Just means I like knowing what I’m dealing with. And yesterday is telling me we have no idea what’s going on.”
“Well, right now you’re dealing with me, coffee, and a day that probably involves shoveling.”
I laughed, the sound short but real. “Guess that beats last night.”
She looked at me over the rim of her mug. “What happened last night?”
“Nothing,” I said too quickly.
Her eyes narrowed. “Linc.”
“Nothing,” I repeated, softer this time. “Just couldn’t sleep.”
She studied me for another moment, then sighed. “You do that thing where you think keeping me in the dark is protecting me. It’s not.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” The furrow between her brows deepened, and I immediately regretted not watching my words closely.
I set the mug down and stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the soap in her hair. “If something happens, I’ll tell you. Until then, I just want you to breathe.”
She looked up at me, eyes steady. “You don’t get to decide when I breathe.”
I smiled faintly. “No, but I can try to make sure you get the chance to.”
That earned me a shake of her head and the ghost of a smile. “You really have a hero complex.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I just like knowing you’re safe in my house.”
Her expression softened for a heartbeat before she looked away. “It’s not your house anymore, Lincoln. It’s ours, remember?” She faked a southern accent and smiled slyly, and I couldn’t help but laugh. Sweet Home Alabama was a movie we’dwatch on repeat during the cold winter months. Her mimicking the joint bank account scene always made her crack up.
I nodded. “Right. Ours.” The word hung there between us. It felt bigger than either of us could handle, but neither of us walked away from it.
When she turned to rinse her cup, I caught sight of something on the counter. A small wet mark near the window, right where the wood met the frame. It could have been condensation, maybe melted snow from where we’d come in last night, but it looked fresh. Too fresh.
I reached out and ran my finger through it. Cold. Clean.
“What is it?” she asked, glancing back.
“Nothing,” I said quickly, wiping it with my thumb. “You got plans for the day?”
“I have a few calls to make for the warehouse. I’ll work from here until the roads clear.”
“Good.”
She watched me for a moment longer before heading upstairs to grab her laptop. I waited until I heard the door close before I looked back at the window. The mark was gone, but the chill that had been creeping through the frame was not my imagination. The seal was fine. The glass intact. But something had brushed the outside of that pane in the night, something that left just enough of a trace to tell me I had not dreamed it.
I made a mental note to check the yard again once it came back on. But for now, I would let her believe everything was fine.
