The fabric hung loose, slipping down one shoulder. When Kingston’s eyes dragged over me, slow and stunned, heat shot straight to my cheeks.
“Don’t get any ideas,” I told him, resuming the position of crossing my arms across my chest. “I’m still pissed at you.”
“I’m very aware,” he said, his voice rough enough to make something low in my stomach clench.
I moved past him, trying to pretend I didn’t feel his gaze follow me as I walked by. The scent of his laundry detergent surrounded me. I hadn’t smelled it in years, but my body remembered. He tensed as I passed, but I ignored it. Nothing good would come from letting down my guard.
I claimed the far end of the couch, pulling my knees up and clutching the letter like it was the only thing that mattered. He stood at the edge of the room, watching me with those dark blue eyes and waiting for me to say something.
The storm outside pounded against the windows. The fire cracked and the silence between us grew until it was impossible to ignore.
“You could’ve told me,” I finally said, my voice coming out much softer than I wanted.
“I know.”
“Youshouldhave told me.”
“I know.”
“And instead you let me think you were gone.” My throat tightened, the truth scraping raw on the way out. “Dead to me.”
He flinched like I’d slapped him, and for a split second, I hated how much it hurt him. Then I hated myself for still caring.
“I thought it was the only way to protect you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
I lifted my eyes to his. The storm outside had nothing on the one raging inside him. His eyes were full of shame, fear, regret, and a love he was still too stubborn to kill.
“You don’t get to decide what I needed,” I said. “Not then. Not now. Not ever again.”
Something inside of him seemed to break. His shoulders slumped and he lowered his head. “You’re right.”
His unexpected agreement rattled me. The softness and honesty in his tone didn’t sound anything like the boy I’d loved back in high school. He sounded like a man who was living in hell and trying to protect me from the fires.
Wind howled against the cabin, rattling the windows hard enough that I jumped.
“You must be tired. Take the bedroom,” he said. “I’ll sleep out here.”
“I don’t need?—”
“Scarlett.” He nodded toward the window, where the snow was stacking higher by the minute. “It’s going to get bad. The power might cut. The bedroom has an extra heater. Take it.”
I hated that he was right. I also hated that he was thinking about my comfort when I’d come in swinging. I hated how easy it was for my pride to crumble under simple, quiet care.
“Fine,” I said, trying not to sound grateful.
I stood slowly, still holding the letter tight against my chest. It felt like a shield and a weapon at the same time. Before I walked away, I paused in the hall and turned to face him. The dark smudges under his eyes made him look haunted and tired and beautiful in a way that hurt to look at.
“You don’t get to disappear in the morning,” I whispered.
His eyes lifted to meet mine. “I wasn’t planning on it.”
“Good,” I said, my breath snagging in my chest. “Because we’re not done.”
A muscle in his jaw jumped. “No,” he mumbled, his voice raw. “We’re not.”
I slipped into the bedroom and closed the door behind me, leaning against it until my heartbeat slowed. The storm groaned outside. The heater hummed in the corner. I crawled into the bed… Kingston’s bed… and pulled the blankets to my chin.
In the quiet, I heard the faint rustle of him settling on the couch. Knowing he was lying awake on the other side of that door, tormented and tender and a mess of contradictions, made it impossible to sleep. And for a split second, I didn’t know if I wanted the storm to pass or hoped it would trap us here forever so I could finally get the answers I’d been waiting on for fourteen years.
