Her voice is soft, but steady—like she knows exactly how much pressure to apply not to break something fragile.
“Families are complicated,” she adds. “And grief doesn’t come with instruction manuals. The fact that you’re even trying this year says a lot about you.”
I’m not sure when she crossed that invisible line between guest and…whatever she is now. But her words settle somewhere deep, in a place I’ve been ignoring for a long time.
Another rumble of thunder shakes the air. The cabin lights try to flicker back on, fail, and give up completely. Natalie jumps again—smaller this time, but enough.
I set down my mug.
“Come here,” I say quietly.
Her brows lift. “What? Why?”
“Because you’re vibrating like one of those electric toothbrushes.”
Her lips twitch. “I’m not vibrating.”
“You’re definitely vibrating.”
“I’m—okay, maybe a little.”
I stand and walk toward her. She straightens, startled, as I kneel by the chair and reach for the blanket draped over the back. It’s thick wool, woven in a pattern my mother picked out years ago.
“Here,” I say, settling it gently over her lap, then her shoulders. “Warmth helps.”
She looks at me like I’ve offered her something far more valuable than a blanket.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I sit back on my heels, meaning to stand, but her hand darts out and catches my wrist.
“Stay,” she says softly.
The word is small. Warm. Full of trust I haven’t earned.
I should pull away. I should tell her I’m fine. But the look in her eyes makes something inside me unclench.
So I stay.
I sit on the floor beside her chair, back resting against the couch, blanket spilling slightly across my shoulder. The fire pops softly. The candle flickers.
Her breathing steadies.
Mine…doesn’t.
After a few minutes, she speaks again, voice quiet enough that I barely catch it.
“You don’t have to do everything alone, you know.”
I stare into the fire. “I’m not good at letting people help.”
“Then this is good practice,” she says gently.
A beat passes.
Two.
She yawns, the sound small and unguarded.
