The silence that followed pressed in hard.
I stood there in the kitchen, too stunned to move, the storm raging outside while something far worse raged inside me.Slowly, almost against my will, I lifted a hand to my cheek, to the spot where her lips had brushed.The skin felt hot under my fingers, as if the mark she’d left was more than memory.
“She doesn’t know what she’s doing,” I muttered to the empty room, the words gruff, an attempt at reason.
But the lie rang hollow.
Because in my chest, deep where the scars still ached, my carefully guarded foundations trembled.The walls I’d built for years shook under the weight of that kiss.
And the worst of it—the part that unsettled me most—was the traitorous thought whispering back.
I wished she did.
Chapter9
Belle
Iwoke to a room washed in pale gold, the winter sun pushing through the frosted windows.For a long moment, I didn’t move.I just lay there, blinking up at the faded wallpaper, trying to believe where I was.
Charlie Archer’s guestroom.
Snowed in after the storm, wrapped in a quilt that smelled faintly of cedar and dust, wearing an old T-shirt and flannel pants that once belonged to him.
The absurdity of it made me laugh softly into the stillness.A week ago, I never would’ve imagined this.And yet here I was, tucked into the heart of his house, hearing the groan of pipes and the distant pop of the fire downstairs.
And then the memory came back, warm and sharp all at once: me standing in the kitchen, whispering goodnight, rising onto my toes to press a kiss to his scarred cheek.
My stomach fluttered just thinking about it.I couldn’t stop the smile that spread across my face, small but unstoppable.It had been innocent, fleeting, but it had meant something to me—maybe more than I dared admit.The way he froze, the way the air had shifted between us… it replayed in my mind like a secret.
I rolled over, reaching for my bag where I’d left it on the chair, and dug out my phone.The screen lit up, and I breathed out a sigh of relief when I saw the signal bars.Spotty, but there.Enough.
My fingers flew over the screen.
Safe at Mr.Archer’s place.Don’t worry.
I hesitated a moment before hitting send, half-worried Mom would panic or read into it.But I pressed it anyway.The message zipped away, and I set the phone back on the quilt, exhaling.
I glanced around the room again, really looking this time.The wallpaper was faded, curling at the edges, and dust clung in the corners.The handmade quilt was frayed, the stitches uneven, but sturdy.Nothing about it was polished, and yet… it felt safe.Like the room had been waiting, unused, until now.
I tugged the T-shirt closer around me; the hem brushing my thighs, sleeves still too long for my hands.It felt strange, wearing something that belonged to him, but comforting too—like I’d slipped into part of his story without asking.
My heart beat faster at the thought of seeing him again downstairs, of what his face might look like in the morning light instead of firelight.Would he still glare, still keep his distance?Or would I catch another flicker of the man behind the walls?
Either way, I knew one thing for certain: I wasn’t afraid of him.Not even a little.
And as sunlight spilled brighter across the floor, I whispered into the quiet, “Good morning, Mr.Archer,” just to practice the words, already smiling at the thought of saying them aloud.
I decided I wasn’t just going to drift downstairs, murmur good morning, and hide behind my mug.After everything—the fire, the storm, the guestroom, his shirt—I needed to do something more.Something to thank him.
So I padded into the kitchen, still barefoot, the hem of the borrowed flannel pants brushing my ankles.The house creaked with the old bones of winter, but I didn’t mind.I pulled open cupboards and rummaged through drawers, humming softly as I searched.
Eggs.A little dusty, but not cracked.Flour in a canister, heavy when I lifted it.Half a bag of sugar shoved in the back.And when I checked the freezer, wrapped in old butcher paper, I found what looked suspiciously like bacon.Probably years old, but I decided to risk it.
It wasn’t much, but I could work with it.
I set everything on the counter, tying my hair back with a spare elastic I found in my pocket, and got to work.Mixing, whisking, cracking eggs into a bowl.The hiss of the bacon in the skillet was satisfying, the kind of sound that made a house feel alive.The scent filled the air—salty, warm, familiar—and I hummed louder, letting the tune carry down the hallway.
The kitchen didn’t feel so empty with the sound of cooking in it.It felt… normal.Like a Sunday morning at home, like family gathered at a table.Like something I hadn’t realized I missed until I stood here, filling his house with the scent of frying bacon and the sound of my voice.
