Her room is simple—quilt on the bed, the pinks and lavenders still vibrant, wooden dresser that’s been in the family for three generations, window that faces east toward the pastures. Morning light will wake her up gently. I made sure of that when I picked this room over the one closer to the stairs.
She steps inside, and I watch her catalog the space. The small heater in the corner—nights get cold up here, even in late summer. The stack of books on the nightstand I added.
Delaney trails her hand over the quilt. “This is beautiful.”
“It belonged to my mother.”
“Daniel—”
“We stored it away after—when we lost her.” I clear my throat. “House full of boys. No place for something soft like this.”
I glance at the bed, then back to Delaney. “But she would’ve wanted it here. Wantedyouto have it.”
Delaney’s throat bobs as she swallows hard.
“You—” She stops. Swallows.
That complicated expression crosses her face again, the one I’m starting to recognize. The one that says she doesn’t know what to do with being cared for.
“Thank you,” she manages.
“Welcome home, Laney.”
The word hangs between us.Home.Neither of us looks away.
Her eyes go bright. Too bright. She blinks hard and turns toward the window, and I let her have the moment. Let her pretend I don’t see.
“I should unpack,” she says. “Get settled.”
“Yeah.” I turn toward the door, even though every instinct screams at me to cross the room and pull her against me.
I’m almost out the door when she speaks again.
“Daniel?”
I turn.
She’s still facing the window, but her hand rests on the basket of tea. “Thank you. For... all of it.”
“Anytime, Laney. I mean that.”
I close the door behind me and stand in the hallway for a long moment, hand pressed flat against the wood.
She’s here. She’s actually here.
Don’t screw this up.
That night, I don’t sleep.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, hyperaware of every sound in the house. The settling of old wood. The wind against the windows. And underneath it all, the knowledge that she’s only feet away.
The line shack keeps replaying in my head. Her hands on my face, pulling me back from the dark. The taste of her mouth. The sounds she made when I touched her—soft, desperate,mine.
I’m hard just thinking about it. Have been half-hard since she walked into my kitchen earlier in those worn jeans that hug her ass like a prayer.
Do this right. Do this properly.
Around 2 AM, I give up. Throw back the covers and pad downstairs in sweats and bare feet, heading for the kitchen. Water. Maybe some of Miss Maggie’s leftover cornbread. Something to occupy my hands and my mind before I do something stupid like walk down that hallway and knock on her door.
