I scrubbed at the mugs like they mattered, like scouring them clean could scour my head too.The rhythm of it—the dip, the scrape, the rinse—was something to focus on.Something to keep me from replaying the sound of her laughter, from remembering the way her eyes had lit when I’d told her she’d have to stay the night.
Routine, I told myself.Routine keeps you steady.Routine keeps her out of your mind.
I was halfway through drying the first mug when I felt it—the shift in the air, the weight of someone at the doorway.
I looked up.
And there she was.
The old T-shirt hung loose on her frame, the fabric brushing her thighs, the sleeves too long and grazing her hands.The flannel pants sat low on her hips, too big but tied tight.She shouldn’t have looked like anything special, dressed in clothes that belonged to another life.But the sight of her in them hit me like a blow to the chest.
For a moment, I forgot to breathe.
She looked fragile.Not weak—there was steel in her, I’d seen it—but fragile like something rare, breakable if handled wrong.The firelight from the other room clung to her hair, softening her into something that didn’t belong in this broken house.
She looked holy.
Like an angel dropped into the ruins of my life.
I gripped the counter hard, my knuckles whitening, trying to force the air back into my lungs.My head told me to look away, to ground myself in the sink, the dishes, the scars burning under the heat of the water.To not want what wasn’t mine.To remember what her father had taken, what she reminded me of every time she smiled.
But my traitorous heart whispered louder.
Whispered that she looked like she belonged here.
Belonged in this kitchen, in this house that had known nothing but silence.Belonged in clothes that weren’t hers but somehow fit her better than they ever had me.Belonged in a space I had sworn would never feel like home again.
I shut my eyes tight, forcing a breath through clenched teeth, trying to hold myself together by sheer force of will.
Because if I let myself believe she belonged here, even for a heartbeat, I wasn’t sure I’d ever find the strength to let her go.
I stayed rooted at the sink, hands braced against the counter, willing myself to breathe steady.The storm rattled against the windows, a low moan threading through the old bones of the house.The rhythm of it should’ve grounded me.Should’ve reminded me why solitude was safer.
Then I heard her footsteps.Soft, careful.
I almost wanted to yell at her to hurry up and get on with it.
But I couldn't.
She stopped in the kitchen doorway, and when I looked up, she was closer than I expected.My chest tightened.The shirt I’d given her hung loose on her frame, sleeves brushing her hands.Firelight caught on her hair, making her look too much like something that didn’t belong in this wreck of a place.
“Thank you,” she said gently, her voice steady but low.“For letting me stay.For the fire.For everything.”
The words pierced deeper than they had any right to.Gratitude shouldn’t hurt.But it did—because I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had looked at me and spoken like that.Like I was worth thanking.
My throat went tight.I forced a grunt, some noncommittal sound, but before I could step back into my armor, she moved.
She rose onto her toes.
And pressed the lightest kiss to my cheek.
It was nothing.Barely a brush of lips against scarred skin.Innocent.Fleeting.
But it seared me like a brand.
I froze, every nerve set on fire, my pulse hammering loud in my ears.My hands curled tighter around the counter, as if I could anchor myself before the ground gave way.
She leaned back, smiling softly.Not teasing.Not pitying.Just warm.Then she whispered, “Goodnight,” and disappeared down the hall into the guestroom, her footsteps fading until the door closed behind her.
