I wish I could get close to him, even if it was just under the pretense of staying warm. I want to go to him and put my arms around his waist and let my nose brush the back of his jacket. He was the only friend I had. And when we parted, I had no one. And neither did he. No one could understand what we’d been through. But everyone thought it wise to keep us apart. I could press a kiss to his back so lightly he wouldn’t notice. I could simply feel him—his sturdy muscles and his strong heartbeat.
I could feel his warmth.
Readjusting the blanket, I sit quietly and press my thighs together under the table. My whole body screams to get up and go to him. My body doesn’t care that Hansel hates me. It just wants him, in every way there is to want someone. I can’t stop wanting him. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t want me anymore.
Not as a friend and not as anything more.
He’s always had a hold on me, like something out of a fairytale. It was Hansel I dreamed about at night. When I was younger, my dreams were sweet. Taffy and holding hands and smirking at one another.
When I got older, and Hansel got tall and handsome, my dreams got less sweet and more… sinful. I dreamed about his body under his clothes and his hair wet from swimming in the river and how his mouth would feel on mine. The childish love I felt for him became something hot and irresistible. I learned what a craving was because that was the only word I could find to describe how I wanted him. Needed him.
To take away what was and protect me again like he once did.
I shake my head and pull the blanket as tight around me as I can. I didn’t come here because I’d hoped there was still hope for us.
Hope abandoned us long ago.
The rocks. The witch.
Thinking of her, even for a few seconds, turns my blood to ice. I focus back on watching Hansel cook.
His hands are large—a man’s hands—but capable as he cooks the eggs and warms the bread in the pan the way I used to love when we were kids. Hansel adds a few sausages to the pan as well, which makes my heart twist all over again.
Food is hard to come by in the village. What little there is costs more than it ever has before. Hansel and his father don’t have much—nobody does—and yet he’s going to offer some of it to me.
The aroma of the breakfast fills the cabin. Hansel takes down three plates from an open shelf near the stove and puts food on one of them. My mouth waters as he carries it to the table and puts it down in front of me, along with a fork and a folded napkin made from cloth that used to be the color of a robin’s egg and is closer to gray now.
I look up to thank him and find his eyes burning into mine. His eyes are still so beautiful, and so angry, that I can’t say a word.
“We’re going to find that house,” he says, his voice soft. “And I’m going to burn it down. I’ll show you there’s no witch. She’s dead.”
The bitterness in his words is at odds with the warmth of the plate.
He’s wrong. She’s not dead, and she’s been trying to lure me back. The determination in Hansel’s expression steals my words. He doesn’t understand. He never has. I wish he were right though. We killed her and I wish she’d stay dead. The horrors are too much and we were only children.
“I—” I swallow thickly, struggling to breathe and get my thoughts in order. I want you to be the person you were. I can’t say that to Hansel. Not when it’s my fault he’s like this. I’m glad you’re angry. No. I’m not glad he’s angry. I’m not glad any of this happened. But he looks fierce and full of life, and he used to look like that when we were kids. Only he was fierce about me, and not this. Meekly, I admit, with the only words I can find, “I don’t remember how to get there.”
Hansel’s eyes narrow a little more. “I do.”
“I wouldn’t have thought you?—”
“I’ve been back before.”
My heart jolts with surprise. He’s been back? I had no idea he went to the witch’s cottage without me. I honestly didn’t think he ever would—even if I were with him. My hands ache around the fabric of the blanket.
My lips part with shock, but I can’t think of a word to say.
Hansel turns his back to me. I fist my hands around the fabric of the blanket to stop myself from reaching for him. I have so many questions. When did he go back? What was it that made him go? Is that why he’s so sure the witch is still dead?
Maybe he’s right. Maybe the long winter has simply made me go mad.
How long did he spend wondering about her before he went?
I don’t know how to ask Hansel anymore.
The bedroom door opens behind me, and I stand up, going automatically towards the sound.
“Good morning,” I say quietly, offering my arm as I reach for him, Hansel’s father.
