"Emma," he said, his voice rough and low.
"Ms. Reed!" Sarah's bright voice shattered the moment like glass. "The caterpillar escaped! We couldn't catch it!"
I pulled my hand back from his, the sudden loss of contact almost physically painful. "That's... that's probably for the best. Caterpillars belong in the wild with their families."
Cole cleared his throat roughly. "Right. Nature and all that."
"I should get them back inside." I stood up quickly, my legs embarrassingly unsteady beneath me. "Break's over. Story to finish."
"Emma." He caught my wrist gently before I could flee, his grip warm and careful. "Thank you. For listening. For understanding. For... all of this."
"Anytime," I managed, and meant it far too much.
I called the children inside, my teacher's smile firmly fixed in place like armor. The rest of the tutoring session passed in a productive blur; there was the climax to the seed’s enthralling story and praises to the children, but my mind remained stubbornly anchored to the porch. To his hand under mine. To the look in his eyes that had seen straight through every careful wall I'd spent a year building.
After the last parent drove away, after Cole's truck rumbled off down the dirt road with Sarah waving sleepily from the window, my cabin fell into profound silence.
I stood at the window, watching the mountains blush pink and gold in the fading evening light. For so long, they'd been symbols of loss. My greatest failure made geological and eternal.
But now they were also his. The source of his peace, his honey, the wildflowers he'd brought me with nervous, uncertain hands. The backdrop to something new and terrifying and wonderful, blooming slowly but surely with my newfound emotions.
Somewhere between the Saturday morning coffees and the quiet, vulnerable conversations and his rough, capable hands fixing every broken thing in my small life, I'd started feeling something I'd sworn I'd never allow myself to feel again.
Hope.
It was fragile, trembling, barely there—a candle flame in a windstorm. Hope for a genuine connection. For a future that wasn't just about surviving the wreckage of the past. For my heart to be more than a dusty relic, to be something living, beating, capable of wanting again.
And hope, as I'd learned in the most devastating way possible with Lily, was the most dangerous thing of all.
Because hope made you lean forward into life. It made you open your clenched hands and reach for something beautiful. And open hands meant you could lose your grip on everything.
All over again.
7.Cole
Three words. That's all it took to upend my entire carefully constructed existence.
"Stay for dinner?"
The Saturday tutoring session had ended. The other kids had been bundled into their parents' cars with cheerful waves and promises to practice reading over the weekend. The crisp October air held the first real bite of approaching winter. Sarah was zipping up her jacket by the door, and my standard exit line was ready on my tongue:Thanks again, Emma. See you Monday.
Safe. Boundaried. A weekly transaction of learning and porch repair. I could live within those lines. I'd built my entire life within much narrower ones.
Then Emma spoke from the kitchen, wiping down the already-clean counter with her back to us. "Would you two like to stay for dinner? I made way too much chili. It's actually embarrassing how much chili I made for one person."
I froze completely. Every instinct honed by a lifetime of avoiding entanglement screamedno. This crossed a line. This wasn't porch-side lemonade or casual Saturday conversation. This was an invitation into the heart of her home, into theintimate, ordinary ritual of a shared meal. This was personal territory, and I was a trespasser by nature.
"We couldn't impose?—"
"It's not imposing." She turned around, leaning against the counter with a hopeful, uncertain smile. "You'd actually be doing me a favor, honestly. Otherwise, I'm eating leftover chili for an entire week."
"Can we, Uncle C? Please please please?" Sarah was already bouncing with excitement, her jacket completely forgotten on the floor.
"I don't want to put you out?—"
"Cole." Emma's voice softened, her eyes meeting mine with gentle warmth. "It's just dinner."
Just dinner. Nothing about this felt like "just" anything. This felt like stepping off a cliff edge.
