I don’t wake until I feel the warmth.
Not from the fire.
From her.
Maisie curls beside me, handsplayed lightly over my chest, as though her palm found the exact spot my heart had been making space for all along. The contact is light, but it echoes deep.
I feel it, even in the guarded corners of myself—the parts I’ve kept shut down and buried for years. Not because I didn’t feel them, but because I didn’t trust anyone to hold them.
She’s so close I can hear the subtle whisper of her breath against my shirt. I also feel the faint pull of her hand when she stirs. And for a second, I let myself wonder what it would be like to wake up to this every morning. To stop pretending this connection is just temporary. To believe, even just for that blink of time before awareness smudges the edges of a dream, that I could let someone in—and still stay whole. Still stay me.
All I know is I don’t move.
Not right away.
Because whatever this is, it doesn’t feel like a mistake.
It feels like the beginning of something I didn’t think I’d get again.
And maybe…something I want to keep.
Chapter 11
Unplugged
Maisie
The power’s out.
Completely.
No purr from the mini fridge, no gurgle from the coffee pot, no fan noise from the ancient wall heater. In their place, the creak of pine branches and the chorus of frogs and birds slowly emphasizes the reality. We’ve been unplugged from the world.
Beau tests the stove, then the light switch. Nothing.
Morning creeps in behind the cabin windows, cloud-covered and gray, dim light brushing across the floorboards. A hush clings to everything, making every sound feel amplified.
A small thread of unease winds through me. This isn’t in the plan. Not that there’s a plan, exactly, but something about the silence feels more intimate than I am prepared for.
“You think it’s an easy fix?” I ask, nudging a curtainaside to peek out the window. “Is this one of those ‘fake boyfriend Beau MacGyver can totally rewire the place with a paperclip and chewing gum’ moments?”
“Looks like something gnawed through the wire.” He taps the window, pointing at the culprit. A frayed cable on the side of the porch. “Squirrel. Or raccoon with a grudge.”
I lift a brow. “I vote raccoon. Squirrels don’t seem that vindictive.”
He shoots me a wry smile. “That’s debatable.”
There’s no rush, no agenda. Only us, and the fire Beau coaxes to life in the fireplace. We toast bread in a skillet over the fire, scavenge for jam packets from the welcome basket, and eat breakfast cross-legged on the rug like we’ve done this a hundred times. But beneath the ease, subtle questions start to surface. Not doubts, exactly. Closer to wishes, each one rooted in the hope that this isn’t fake anymore.
A few crumbs tumble onto the rug when I lean back on my hands. The fire’s heat has made one side of my leg almost too warm, the other still cool from the cabin’s morning air.
I don’t mention waking up with my hand on his chest, the fire long out. Our breath was visible in the cold, the morning chill winding around my arms and tickling the skin at the back of my neck. I pulled away slowly and carefully, but soon noticed his eyes were open, already watching me. He didn’t speak. Just held my gaze for a second, his expression still and waiting, as though the next move belonged to me. I didn’t ask what he was thinking, and he didn’t offer. Maybe we’re both pretending it didn’t happen. Or maybe we’re just saving it for when the words feel less risky.
At one point, I say, “Can you imagine if the Newly-Deads were here? They’d be thrilled.”
Beau chuckles, “They’d be sipping tea from skull mugs and rating the electromagnetic purity of the air.”
“They’d be like, ‘finally, peace from modern interference,’” I say, mock-dramatic.
