I glance over my shoulder and see her leaning back into the cushions, her eyes closed, her body finally starting to unwind.
She’s here. In my space. Safe.
The kettle whistles. I pour the water and let the coffee steep. When I bring two mugs over, she’s watching the fire.
“Thank you,” she says when I hand her the mug. Her fingers wrap around the ceramic, and she brings it to her face, breathing in the steam.
Settling into the chair across from her, I give her space even though everything in me wants to close the distance. “You need to eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“When did you eat last?”
She frowns into her coffee. “Breakfast. Maybe.”
I stand and move to the kitchen. There’s bread I baked two days ago, cheese, apples, salami, and pickles from the farmer’s market. I put together a plate and bring it back.
“Davin—”
“Eat.” I keep my tone gentle but firm. “You can argue with me after you’ve had food.”
She picks up a slice of apple and bites into it. The small act of surrender makes satisfaction curl warm in my gut.
Returning to my chair, I watch her eat. She does it slowly at first, then faster, her body recognizing what it needs. Her throat works as she swallows. She finishes half the plate before she seems to remember I’m watching.
“Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t realize I was that hungry.” She takes a sip of coffee.
“Don’t apologize.” Leaning forward, elbows on my knees, I hold her gaze. “You’ve been running on empty for too long.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” The fire crackles between us. “I know what burnout looks like. I know what it feels like to push yourself past breaking because stopping feels like giving up.”
Her expression shifts. Recognition, maybe. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”
“I am.”
She sets her mug down. “What happened?”
The question is gentle, not prying. I could deflect. But if I want her to trust me, I need to give her real pieces of myself.
“I was a firefighter. Worked in Billings for fifteen years.” I glance at the flames in the fireplace. “I left after a bad call, came here, and built this place. I worked on building a life around the guilt instead of letting it bury me.”
She doesn’t rush to fill the silence with empty comfort.
“I’m sorry,” she says finally.
“Me too.” I look at her. “Still working on it.”
She nods, her eyes distant for a moment before they focus on me again. “Is that why you’re so...” She trails off, searching for the word.
“Protective?”
“I was going to say ‘bossy,’ but protective works.”
The corner of my mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “Maybe both.”
“I don’t need protecting.”
