Outside, the wind picked up, pressing against the windows. I tightened my hold, listening to the steady beat of her heart against my chest.
For the first time that night, I let myself breathe.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
KRISTIN
Every muscle in my body felt heavy, like I had been carrying myself through water. There was a dull ache behind my eyes and a stiffness running through my shoulders from sleeping hard in one position. But none of it felt sharp or panicked. It just felt like proof that the night before had happened, that I had actually slept in a bed that felt like mine with someone whose hand had stayed in reach even after I slipped under.
I forced myself to sit up. The room was still warm from the fire we had let burn down in the night. The air smelled faintly of pine, coffee, and clean cotton. The world was still in one piece, and that was enough reason to move.
I slid my feet to the floor, pulled one of Linc’s flannel shirt over the tank I still had on, and padded barefoot toward the kitchen.
When I walked into the kitchen, he was standing by the counter with two mugs in his hand. The morning light through the window cut across his shoulders, and I could see the stubborn set of his jaw even from the doorway. His face looked drawn but calmer than it had the night before. The sharpness he’d carried in his eyes when he checked the locks and walkedthe line of windows after dark had softened to something more controlled, more settled. Watchful, but not wired.
He looked up as soon as I stepped into the doorway.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning.”
His voice came quietly and rough, like gravel dragged over hot coals. He handed me a mug and leaned back against the counter beside the stove. The coffee was hot enough that the ceramic warmed my palms. My hands still felt unsteady from everything that had happened, so the heat was a welcome relief. I wrapped both hands tight around it like I needed proof of the moment I was in.
“You slept better than I thought you would,” he said.
“It’s because you were beside me.”
“I won’t turn down taking the credit,” he laughed lightly.
We stood there for a while. Neither of us seemed in a hurry to fill the air with easy talk just to make sound. The silence was not uncomfortable, just full. Present. Every clink of the spoon in his cup, every soft tap when he shifted his boots on the floor, every slow exhale felt louder than usual.
I watched him from the corner of my eye. He watched me the same way. That had always been the rhythm of us. We had always spoken as much in the quiet as we did with words.
He set a plate of toast on the table. “Eat something.”
“I’m fine,” I started to say, but he had already pulled out the chair for me. I took a seat because arguing with him first thing in the morning would not get either of us anywhere.
I took a bite even though my stomach was not ready. The toast tasted like butter and salt and a little too much heat from the pan, and for whatever reason, that small, basic taste made something in my throat sting. I had food. I had a table. I had him.
I swallowed and took another small bite.
“You think we should go up to Kipp’s?” I asked.
He hesitated. That little pause told me more than anything else he could have said. “He’ll be expecting us.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to.” Linc’s words were filled with concern.
“I think I have to.”
He studied me for a long moment, his eyes moving over my face like he was checking for cracks. Not just new ones. Old ones too. I held his gaze because I knew if I looked away, he would tell me I was not ready, and I would believe him.
Then he nodded. “Okay.” That single word untied something I had not realized was knotted in my chest.
I reached for another piece of toast. My hands still shook, and I hated that he saw it. I hated that I could feel the tremor in my fingers when I lifted the bread and that I could not will it still. He did not mention it, just took my empty mug, filled both again, and sat across from me like this was no different than any other slow winter morning we had ever shared.
For a few minutes, we ate in silence. The kind where you could hear winter outside if you listened. Wind nudging against the eaves. A soft rattle in the stovepipe as something shifted with the draft. Snowmelt ticking quietly in the gutters and then freezing again before it could fall.
