“So,” Corbyn said finally, accepting the cup she handed him, his fingers carefully avoiding contact with hers. “About that scene transition…”
It was an attempt to steer them back onto safer ground, something she knew was vital in this moment.
“Right,” she said, gathering her notes. “The transition.”
As they returned to the manuscript, Sadie felt more settled than she had before their unexpected chat. She wouldn’t be responding to Nate’s email because Corbyn was right: she deserved better than a man whose love had always come with conditions. She owed it to herself to reclaim what she had lost.
February 26, 2025
-Sadie-
The steady patter against the windshield had Sadie’s unease growing as she drew closer to the manor. The cold front—and the rain it brought—had rolled in the previous evening. It was precisely the sort of weather that could set old injuries throbbing, and she suspected today might be especially difficult for Corbyn.
When she arrived, Edie greeted her in the kitchen as usual. She was wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron, but Sadie instantly noticed the way the other woman’s lips pursed.
“Morning, love,” Edie sighed, her voice taking on an edge she hadn’t heard from her before. “He’s in the study as usual. I’ve put the kettle on.”
“Thanks,” Sadie replied, hanging her coat on the rack by the door. “I’ll take him some tea.”
“Good luck with him today,” Edie added, lowering her voice slightly. “Weather makes his hand act up something fierce, though he’d rather bite his tongue than admit it.”
Sadie nodded, preparing two mugs of tea. She’d learned exactly how Corbyn preferred his, a splash of milk, no sugar,steeped precisely four minutes. It gave her a moment to collect herself, knowing that if Edie was on edge, then there had likely already been tension in the house.
When she approached the study, she paused at the threshold. Through the partially open door, she could see Corbyn hunched over his desk, his shoulders tense as he typed. His right hand tapped out a steady rhythm while his left hovered awkwardly over the keys, darting in every so often to tap a letter before retreating. A grimace flickered across his face as he flexed and stretched his scarred fingers, clearly trying to work through the stiffness.
Typing up the pages of his handwritten manuscript was a necessity, and he kept his laptop under lock and key. His fear that his work would be stolen once more meant it had to be hardwired to the printer, not connected to the internet.
Sprawled by the hearth, Riley lifted his head at her entrance, his tail thumping a gentle greeting against the floor. The sound caused Corbyn to look up, and Sadie caught the flash of pain that crossed his features before he could mask it.
“Morning,” she said, keeping her voice light as she crossed the room. “Thought we could use some fortification before diving into the day’s work.”
“Thank you,” Corbyn said, his voice rougher than usual as she set one mug on the desk where he could reach it. He flexed his fingers again, a barely suppressed wince betraying the cost of even that tiny movement.
Sadie settled into what had become her chair, angled slightly toward his desk, and kept her voice as neutral as possible. “Bad day?”
Corbyn’s mouth tightened, his instinctive denial visibly forming. Then, surprisingly, his shoulders dropped, and he grumbled, “Blasted rain.” That simple statement gave her all the confirmation she needed.
“My mom’s hand acts up whenever a storm front moves through,” Sadie told him, sipping her tea. That earned her a curious look, and she noticed that his expression seemed to soften. She needed to be careful to not push too hard, but her familiarity with what he was experiencing seemed to ease his temper.
He gestured toward the laptop screen, his voice tight when he replied, “I’ve been trying to type up those edits we agreed on yesterday. It’s going at a bloody snail’s pace.”
“I could type them for you,” she suggested, knowing that her offer, no matter how sincere, would likely be rejected. “Since we’ve already decided on the wording…”
“No.”
The word was clipped, definitive, and Sadie nodded, accepting the boundary without comment. His independence was something he guarded as closely as his writing, and she had come to understand how important that was to him.
“Alright then,” she said, reaching for her notebook. “Why don’t we talk through the climax of the book instead? We can work out where it’s heading.”
Relief briefly softened Corbyn’s expression, though he tried to hide it behind his mug as he took a long sip of his tea. They fell into a productive rhythm, discussing how the various plot threads would converge in the climax. Sadie sketched a rough timeline on her notepad, capturing Corbyn’s ideas and adding her own suggestions. The work absorbed them both, and for nearly an hour, the frustration with the laptop was forgotten.
When Sadie looked up to ask about a character’s motivation, she found Corbyn grimacing, massaging the scarred fingers of his left hand with his right. After a moment, he pulled a small tube from his desk, and the name on the label was instantly familiar.
“Arnica was my mom’s go-to as well,” Sadie commented, keeping her voice soft. As their professional tolerance had shifted into something like friendship, she had been sharing more of these little asides, hoping to find more common ground.
“My sister’s special blend,” he said, looking up at her. To Sadie’s surprise, the answer was delivered without the anger that had colored his tone earlier. “She left it during her last visit with explicit instructions that I’d better use it or face her wrath.”
Setting down her notebook and pen, she asked, “She’s a doctor, right? Your sister?”
