No smile. No invitation.
My chest tightens anyway.
I feel like a burglar opening and shutting doors until I find his washer, dryer, and mudroom. As I measure detergent, warmth pools in my chest. Soon, my jeans and sweater will smell like him, too.
In the bathroom mirror, I brace myself to see the woman from last night—fractured, frantic. Instead, someone quieter stares back. Still shaken. Still bruised. But not coming apart.
If less than twenty-four hours away from Trevor can do this… what about longer?
The thought no longer feels like betrayal. It feels like possibility.
In the kitchen, a mug sits beside the coffeepot. A plate on the stove is covered carefully. When I lift it, warmth and the smell of eggs and potatoes rise. Bacon tempts, crisp at the edges.
He cooked. Without asking. Without expectation.
I sit at the table and eat slowly, listening to the fire crackle and the muted thud of wood outside. The silence settles into me, uncomfortable but grounding. Like a deep breath I forgot how to take.
I’ve been trained to fill silence. To brace for it. To read it as warning.
But this—thisis just quiet.
The door opens, cold air sweeping in. I flinch before I can stop myself.
He sets the logs by the hearth and straightens. “Sleep well?”
The question is so ordinary it throws me.
“Yes,” I say carefully, watching his face for judgment that doesn’t come.
“Coffee okay?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
His eyes flick briefly to the flannel hanging off my shoulder, then away again. A muscle works in his jaw.
“Better shower,” he says gruffly, jerking his thumb down the hall.
I nod, unsure if I’ve done something wrong. “I hope it’s okay I borrowed?—”
“Fine,” he says, already turning away.
The word lands heavy. Final. Not unkind.
When I’m alone again, I finish eating and stare at my phone. No messages. My body tightens in anticipation anyway. It always does.
I lift my sleeve and study the bruises. They don’t look like accidents. They look like truth.
They don’t need excuses.
They need action.
From me.
Chapter
Seven
ALLIE
