Instead, I get… quiet.
The kind that feels wrong at first. Like my body forgot how to exist without the constant thrum of heat driving me half out of my mind. My head’s fuzzy, my muscles ache, and my thighs feel like I ran a marathon uphill both ways. But I’m not on fire anymore. I’m just… me.
Which is almost worse.
The bed is empty.
Cue panic.
But before I can spiral intothey left me, obviously they left me, why wouldn’t they…the scents hit. Cedar smoke. Honeycomb. Pine and leather. Still everywhere, soaked into the sheets, thick in my lungs. They haven’t gone anywhere.
Still, my chest is tight until a voice cuts through the quiet.
“Morning, sugar.”
Beck’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, as if he hasn’t spent literal days ruining me into the mattress. Stoic. Casual. Except… his ears are pink. And he’s hiding something behind his back.
Suspicious.
“What did you do?”
His mouth twitches, almost a smile. “Nothing.”
Liar.
Before I can press, Hayes’s head pops around the frame. “Don’t move. Seriously, Lo. Stay put.”
Which, excuse me? That’s basically an invitation to move. My legs twitch, ready to rebel even though they might as well be jelly.
And then Ford strolls in with a basket. A literal basket.
I squint. “Oh no. What fresh hell is this?”
“Clothes first,” Ford says patiently. He pulls out one of my sundresses, yellow, soft cotton, one I forgot I even had, and holds it out.
I blink at him. Then at the dress. Then back at him.
“Really?”
His brow lifts. No explanation. Just quiet Ford logic that somehow nudges me into slipping it on.
By the time Beck is tugging the straps over my shoulders and sliding an oversized sweater over my head, Hayes is pressing a peppermint stick into my hand like it’s medicine. I know they’re up to something. Especially when Ford crouches down to slide on my boots.
Shoes. He put me in shoes. The betrayal.
“What is happening?”
None of them answers. They just exchange smug little glances and herd me out the back door like I’m some dazed woodland creature.
And then I see it.
The garden.
Except it’s not a usual garden. Not one with bugs and overgrown tomato plants and blueberry bushes that attract fruit flies. There’s a clear bubble in the middle of the backyard to shield the space from the harsh winter wind. Inside the bubble, twinkle lights glow warm against the oak branches just beyond the protective walls.
There’s a blanket on the grass, piled with pillows and more blankets that I recognize as stolen from my disaster of a nest. There’s a small wood-burning stove inside the bubble, the flames softly licking inside, no doubt warming the space and chasing away the chill of winter.
But then, my attention falls to the spread of food… fresh bread, fruit, honey jars, lemonade dripping condensation down the pitcher. A fresh vegetable platter. Danishes.
