“Thanks,” I whisper, because it’s all I’ve got.
He nods once, then stands and starts clearing the plates without another word.
But that crack he just opened? It’s still there. And now I’m not sure if I want to fix it or fall through it.
5
I sit at the table a moment longer, letting the last of his words settle in my bones. Then I push my chair back and stand, the wood legs scraping softly against the floor. My body still feels heavy, but steadier than it did an hour ago.
Sam’s at the sink, sleeves rolled to his elbows, steam rising as he scrubs a dish. There’s something oddly grounding about the way he moves, like this is just what you do when the world slows down.
I step up beside him.
“Need help drying?” I ask.
He glances over, the barest flicker of something like surprise in his eyes. Then he nods.
“I never turn down help in the kitchen.”
I grab a dish towel and take the plate he rinses and hands to me. We fall into rhythm, passing plates and bowls, wiping them dry, stacking them on the counter.
We don’t speak. But it isn’t awkward. The silence feels earned. Like neither of us wants to ruin it by trying too hard.
The window above the sink is fogged, but beyond it, the storm still swirls, white and wild. Inside, the kitchen glowsgolden. Warm. Quiet. It’s domestic in a way that feels too intimate, too dangerous for people who are supposed to be strangers. And yet here we are.
Sam rinses a mug, fingers steady beneath the stream of water, and hands it to me. Our hands brush. It’s just a graze, skin to skin. But it’s enough to send a jolt of heat up my arm. Enough to make me pause, towel in hand, breath caught somewhere between my ribs.
I glance at him.
He’s not looking at the mug. He’s looking at me.
Something shifts in his expression. Something quiet and unreadable and far too tender. Like maybe he’s been watching me longer than I realized. Like maybe that silence between us wasn’t silence at all, but space waiting to close.
His hand lingers for a moment longer than it needs to. Just enough to make sure I notice.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he says softly, barely above the hum of the water.
I swallow. “Thanks to you.”
He shrugs one shoulder but doesn’t pull away. “It’s a miracle you made it across the bridge in that car.”
“I thought the same thing somewhere around the time the water started creeping through the door.”
That earns a smile from him—crooked, a little tired, but real. And then, gently, his fingers brush mine again as he lets go of the mug.
The contact is brief. But deliberate.
My breath stutters.
This isn’t just about gratitude anymore. Not just about saving someone from a flood. It’s something slow. Something quiet. Something that feels like it could ruin me if I’m not careful. For the first time in a long time I don’t want to be careful.
But then I think of Kurt. His name slips in like a splinter beneath the skin. A man I trusted. A man I thought I loved. I remember the way he smiled when he lied. The casual cruelty. The way he took everything I gave him and then used it to climb higher while I watched from the ground.
The betrayal still lingers in my chest like a bruise that never fully healed.
And suddenly, Sam’s closeness feels too dangerous. Too soon. Too good.
Slowly, I take a step back.
