I look up, startled, wiping at my eyes quickly, like I can erase the evidence.
Sam’s standing in the doorway.
Silent. Still.
The flannel he wore last night is unbuttoned over a thermal shirt, damp at the collar from the snow. His hat’smissing, and without it, I can see the mess of dark hair raked back from his forehead. There’s something tired in his eyes. Something heavy.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches me like he’s piecing something together and I hate that I must look as raw and miserable as I feel.
“I knocked,” he says quietly. “But I guess you didn’t hear me.”
I shake my head, too embarrassed to speak. My voice would crack anyway.
Sam steps into the room, slow and careful, like approaching a wounded animal.
“Phern said you were up.” He pauses, glancing down at his boots before lifting his eyes back to me. “She also said she might’ve pushed a little too hard.”
“She didn’t,” I whisper, my voice thick.
He watches me for a long beat, and then asks, “You okay?”
The question hangs in the air between us. A simple phrase, too small for everything it means.
No.
Yes.
I don’t know.
“Yeah,” I say finally.
“I figured you might be hungry,” he says, voice low. “Thought I’d make some eggs. Toast, maybe. You up for that?”
He’s offering peace. Gentleness. A way out of this moment without pressing any harder. Andthatmakes the tears threaten again.
“I’d like that,” I say quietly. “Thank you.”
He gives a small, crooked smile. “Come out when you’re ready. Take a right and walk all the way down the hallway.Can’t miss the kitchen.”
And just like that, he disappears again leaving the door slightly ajar and my heart in a hundred new pieces.
Slowly, I push myself out of bed. My body protests, muscles stiff and limbs trembling like I’ve been emptied out and not quite refilled. Like whatever strength I had got swept away with the Prius. Each step feels like a negotiation with gravity as I pad barefoot across the wooden floor, blanket still clutched around me like armor.
I try the first door.
Closet. Full of men’s clothes. Sam’s…
I move to the next one, bracing myself on the frame as I twist the knob.
Bingo.
Bathroom.
And what a bathroom it is.
Warm light spills over honeyed wood and slate-gray tile. There’s a deep, clawfoot tub in the corner, a walk-in shower with glass walls, and a vanity that looks handcrafted that’s worn smooth by time and careful hands. Everything smells like eucalyptus and something faintly sweet, like vanilla and cedar had a baby.
A plush towel hangs neatly from a hook, and a fuzzy bathmat waits like a soft landing for tired feet. It’s the kind of space that invites you to breathe. To exist.
