“You’ll have to stay the night,” I muttered, the words rough, dragged out like they cut on the way up.
Her head snapped up, eyes wide, and then—God help me—they brightened.Relief, not fear, spilled across her face.She didn’t pale at the thought of being trapped with me.She didn’t edge back or stammer.She looked… glad.
It unsettled me more than the storm.
I turned away fast, jaw tight, pretending to busy myself with the fire.I could feel her gaze lingering, warm as the flames, and it gnawed at me.People weren’t supposed to look at me like that.Not anymore.
She should’ve been nervous.She should’ve seen the danger in being alone here, with a man the town called a monster.Instead, she smiled like I’d given her something worth keeping.
I clenched my fists at my sides, teeth grinding.I hadn’t meant it as kindness.It was practicality, that was all.The roads were shut, the storm too fierce.She’d stay because she had no choice, not because I wanted her here.
At least, that was what I kept telling myself.
But the truth pressed in, sharp and unrelenting: I didn’t want her walking out that door.Not into the storm.Not away from the firelight.
Not away from me.
I grabbed a lantern off the shelf and motioned for her to follow, my boots heavy on the old stairs.The house groaned the way it always did in storms, wind pressing against the walls like it wanted in.I hadn’t brought anyone upstairs in years—no reason to—but if she was staying; she needed a room.
The guestroom door stuck a little before it gave.I pushed it open and stepped aside, letting her in first.The air smelled of dust and disuse.The wallpaper had faded to a dull yellow, curling at the seams.The quilt on the bed was hand-stitched decades ago, colors muted, edges fraying.Cobwebs clung to the corners.
She turned slowly, taking it all in, and then that little smile tugged at her mouth.“This room belongs in a museum,” she teased, light dancing in her eyes.
I shot her a glare, sharp enough to cut.But she only laughed, soft and easy, the sound filling the hollow space like it had been waiting for it.
Something in my chest cracked.
It shouldn’t have mattered.It was just a laugh, just a girl poking fun at old wallpaper and a bedspread that had seen better days.But it hit me anyway.The sound wrapped around me, unsettling in its warmth, too close to something I hadn’t let myself feel in a long time.
Home.
That was what it felt like.
And it was dangerous, because home was something I’d lost forever.Burned out of me in the desert, betrayed out of me in the ashes of my old life.I’d sworn I didn’t need it anymore.
But standing there, with her laughter softening the dust and the cracks, it felt too much like having it again.
And that terrified me more than the storm outside.
The drawers in the old dresser stuck, but after a bit of tugging, I got one open.Inside, folded in a half-forgotten pile, were clothes I hadn’t thought about in years—an old T-shirt, thin with age, and a pair of flannel pants soft from too many washes.They’d once belonged to me, back when I cared enough to buy things that felt comfortable.
I held them for a long moment, fingers tightening on the fabric.It was stupid, really—just clothes.Nothing special.But the act of offering them felt… strange.Like baring something private I’d kept locked away with the rest of the past.
Finally, I turned and held them out, my voice coming out rougher than I meant.“They’ll do until morning.”
She blinked, then reached out and took them from my hands.The way she smiled—soft, grateful, as if I’d handed her something far more valuable than worn flannel and cotton—made my chest tighten.
“Thank you,” she said gently, like it was the kindest gesture in the world.
I shifted, uneasy, suddenly too aware of the space between us.It was easier when she bristled at my growls or ignored my glares.Easier when I could convince myself she was only here for the books, for the task.But gratitude?That was harder to fight.
I didn’t know what to do with it.Didn’t know how to stand there with her looking at me like that, as though kindness was still something I could give.
So I did what I always did.I turned away, jaw tight, muttered something about getting some sleep.But her smile lingered in my mind long after, unsettling and warm, like a match struck in the dark.
And I hated how much I wanted to hold on to it.
Back in the kitchen, I turned to the sink.The mugs from the cocoa sat on the counter, faint rings of chalky brown clinging to the insides.I filled the basin with hot water; the pipes groaning as steam rose up.The warmth bit at my scarred hands, an ache that had never left me, but I welcomed it.Pain was grounding.Familiar.Something I could hold onto.
