He straightens and meets my gaze, his expression unreadable but soft.
“I'll let you know when dinner's ready,” he says, his voice low, steady. “And I’ll put away what we bought in town.”
For a second, I almost reach for him. Almost ask him to stay. But I don’t. I just nod, hugging my arms around myself, and watch as he backs out of the room, leaving the door open a crack like he’s giving me space without truly leaving me alone.
When he’s gone, I stand there, the silence pressing in from all sides. The grief sits heavy in my chest, too big to name, too raw to unpack. And for the first time since Lura’s laughter faded from the world, I let the first real tear slide down my cheek.
The guest room feels too big and too small all at once. After a few minutes of just standing there, staring blankly at the bag on the bed as tears roll down my cheeks, I force myself to move. I grab the clothes, shuffle into the adjoining bathroom, and turnthe shower on hotter than necessary, letting the small room fill with steam.
Stripping out of my clothes feels mechanical. Shirt, jeans, undergarments, and socks all pooling on the tile. I step under the spray, the water hitting my skin like tiny burning needles.
At first, I just stand there, hands braced against the cool tile, forehead bowed. The water beats down, washing away the outside world. The smell of the barn, the chill of the rain, the dust and debris of the day.
But it doesn’t touch what’s inside me. It doesn’t wash away the gaping hole in my chest. It doesn’t silence the echo of Lura’s laugh that will never ring out again. It doesn’t fix the way the world feels cracked and wrong now. And somewhere between one breath and the next, my knees buckle.
I catch myself on the wall, gasping out a sob. It rips through me, wild and ugly, bouncing off the tile in painful echoes.
Another follows.
And another.
Until I’m crouched under the spray, crying so hard my chest hurts, the grief pouring out of me faster than the water running down the drain.
I don’t know how long I stay there.
Long enough for the steam to cling heavily to the air.
Long enough for my skin to turn pink and raw.
Long enough for the knock on the door to come, soft but insistent.
“Olive?” Liam’s voice is low, careful. Like he’s trying not to scare me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing a fist against my mouth to muffle the sobs. But it’s too late. He heard.
“Olive,” he says again, voice thick now. “Can I come in, honey?”
I can’t speak. I can barely breathe.
But somehow, my hand moves to unlock the door.
A second later, it eases open, and Liam steps inside, moving slowly, like he’s approaching a wounded animal.
He doesn’t look at me like I’m pathetic. Or broken. Or something he doesn’t know how to fix.
He just sees me.
He crosses the room, reaching out to turn the water off with one quick, sure movement. The sudden silence feels deafening, heavy.
Without a word, he grabs a towel and drapes it gently around my shoulders, sinking down to the floor beside me, pulling me into him with a tenderness that absolutely undoes me.
I collapse against him, wet and shivering and raw, and he wraps me up like he’s willing to carry it all for me if he has to.
“I’ve got you, honey,” he murmurs into my hair. “I've got you.”
And I believe him.
Liam holds me there on the cold tile, his arms steady and sure even as I shudder against him. He doesn't rush me. Doesn’t say anything. Just breathes with me, slow and steady, until my sobs taper off into hiccupping, broken little breaths.
