Adena is asleep beside me, turned slightly away, one hand tucked under her cheek.Her breathing is slow and even, deeper than it’s been in weeks.
The old habits itch under my skin.Count the seconds.Track the sounds.Measure the distance to the windows, the door, the weapons within reach.I could catalog the room blindfolded, every creak and shadow already filed and named.
But tonight, there’s something else in the room with us, something heavier than vigilance:
Responsibility.
I slip out of bed quietly and pull on my boots.The cabin settles as I move, wood popping softly like it’s clearing its throat.Outside, the stars are sharp and close, scattered across the sky in a way the city never allows.No hum of traffic.No sirens.No signal bars glowing on a screen.
Just space.
I step onto the porch and breathe in deep.Pine.Cold stone.Woodsmoke.The kind of air that strips things down to what matters.
I rest my forearms on the railing and stare out into the dark, letting my thoughts circle without trying to pin them down.I’ve spent my life believing control was the same thing as safety.That if I stayed ahead of the threat—if I anticipated every move—I could outrun the damage.
That belief burned me down to the studs.
I’ve said prayers over the last six weeks.Short ones.Bargains.Desperation dressed up as faith.Words thrown upward in the seconds before impact.
This feels different.
I don’t kneel.I don’t bow my head.I just stand there under the open sky and let the silence press in until there’s nowhere left to hide.
“Father,” I say quietly, testing the word.It doesn’t feel natural yet, but it doesn’t feel wrong either.
I stop.Swallow.Start again.
“I don’t know how to be a husband,” I admit.“I know how to fight.I know how to run.I know how to survive.”
The wind moves through the trees, low and steady.
“I don’t know how to love her the way she needs to be loved.”
I grip the railing and force myself not to retreat into the familiar comfort of planning contingencies.
“I’m scared I’ll lie to her,” I say.“That this isn’t over.”
I think of the trust Adena’s placed in me, and my chest tightens.
“I don’t ask You to make it easy,” I continue.“I don’t ask You to make me safe.I know better than that.”
The night doesn’t answer.It doesn’t need to.
“Just make me steady,” I say.“Make me honest.”
I let out a slow breath.“I can’t do this on my own.I need Your help.”
I stand there a while longer, until the cold starts to bite and the tension inside me eases just a fraction.
When I go back inside, the fire has burned down to embers, casting the room in a soft, flickering glow.Adena stirs as I slide back into bed and flips on her side.
“Are you going to make a habit of leaving me alone in bed?”
Her voice is sleep-rough, but there’s an edge to it—playful, challenging.I can just make out her expression in the dim light, that slight curve at the corner of her mouth that says she felt my absence but gave me space anyway.
“Not if I can help it,” I say, closing the distance between us.My hand finds her waist, and I’m struck again by how easily she fits against me, like something I’ve been searching for without knowing it.
“Not if you can help it,” she repeats, a hint of amusement in her tone.“That’s diplomatic.I expected better.”
