And the guilt doubled for that too.
I knew what the “right” thing was.I’d known it from the second she knocked on my door with frost in her hair and determination in her eyes.The right thing would be to step back, let her go, send her down the hill into the waiting arms of someone safe.Someone unscarred.Someone who could give her easy mornings and laughter without weight, not a burned man stomping through his days with the past clinging like ash.
I told myself that again and again.She deserved better.Better than my shadows, better than my silence, better than the way I kept staring when I thought she wouldn’t notice.
And so I schemed.Not in the way I used to plan for battle, but in the way a coward does: contemplating cold, decisive endings.I thought about telling her the truth—the kind of truth that would poison every smile she gave me.I imagined laying it all bare: her father’s betrayal, the fire, the way I’d vowed never to open myself to anyone again.If I did it right, if I chose my words with enough venom, she’d leave.She’d hate me.And hating me would keep her safe.
It was sacrifice, I told myself.But deep down, I knew better.It was just another kind of cowardice.
Because then there were the small moments.The ones that cracked me open no matter how hard I braced.
She paused in the middle of stringing lights, turning to me with those soft, honest eyes, and said, almost shyly, “This looks like home.”
The word hit like a hammer to the ribs.Home.Something I hadn’t claimed in years.Something I didn’t deserve.I wanted to tell her that.I wanted to unload everything—the betrayal, the night the firelight turned cruel, the promises I’d made to never be vulnerable again.I wanted to tell her so she’d know, so she’d stop looking at me like I was anything other than a ruin.
Instead, I swallowed the words.My throat burned with them.And all I managed was handing her another string of lights.“Hang them good,” I muttered, my voice small, weaker than I wanted her to hear.
Two halves of me clawed at each other.
One half screamed for me to end this, to push her away, to protect her from the rot of my life.It warned that proximity would only break her, drag her down into the same ash I walked through daily.That she’d grow to resent me, the way others had, the way I’d learned people always did once the novelty wore off.
But the other half—the selfish part—whispered that maybe her nearness could mend me.That maybe the warmth in her laugh, the certainty in her gaze, could thread light through the wreckage I’d become.
I hated myself for even thinking it.Hated that my heart weighed options like some moral equation: protect her or keep her.Lose her or ruin her.
“You’re thirty-nine and acting like a coward,” I scolded myself under my breath, watching her hum as she worked, paper stars catching the light.
But coward or not, I stayed rooted in place.And I didn’t tell her to leave.
She balanced on the stool, reaching high to hang a star over the tallest shelf.Her silhouette cut against the window, framed by the last light of day, and for a second she looked like she belonged in some other life—a life without scars, without ghosts.
But watching her stirred something dark.I thought of the night I learned what betrayal truly was—the night the woman I trusted turned her back, and the man I’d called a brother became a stranger.That memory, jagged and sharp, laced through me like venom.And seeing her up there, so careless in her faith, made the parallel burn.
I wanted to step forward, to steady the stool before it wobbled, to keep her safe.But I stayed frozen, fists tight at my sides.Afraid that if I touched her, it would mean something I had no right to mean.Afraid that my hand on her would anchor her here, to me, in ways I could never unmake.
By the time night fell, the library glowed with the lights I swore I didn’t want.Paper stars shimmered, garlands draped across shelves, and the shadows looked softer somehow.She hummed contentedly among the stacks, as if she’d conjured a miracle from dust and grief.
I couldn’t stand it.
So I slipped outside without a word, the cold biting harder than it should.I lit a cigarette, dragging deep until smoke curled from my mouth like confessions I couldn’t voice.Ash fell against the snow, pale and weightless, like everything I’d been holding in.
I knew I should be brave.I should tell her everything—the betrayal, the fire, the ruins I’d made of myself.But instead, I stood there rehearsing the truth I already knew:
If I was honest, I’d lose her.
If I lied, I’d lose her, anyway.
Either way, I lost.
Chapter13
Belle
Iarrived earlier than usual, boots crunching over the frost-hardened path, my breath puffing white in the still air.My chest felt tight with nerves, but I smoothed my palms over my coat and told myself again: today was about work.Not about feelings.Not about kisses or firelight or stars strung across his library.
The house greeted me with its quiet.The faint scent of pine still lingered from the branches I’d tucked along the mantel, threaded through with the ghost of cocoa.The fire had burned to gray ash, the hearth cold, but the air wasn’t empty—it carried memory in every corner.Even the gutters ticked softly with snowmelt, a steady drip-drip that grounded me in the present.
I shook off my scarf and made straight for the library.The room felt different now, warmer with the lights we’d hung, but I ignored the tug in my chest and focused on the work.I set my bag down, pulled out my notebook, and flipped to a fresh page.
