“Eat a little. You need it.”
I take the bite. Cheeks warm because he’s feeding me like I’m something precious. He watches my mouth the whole time, then takes a slice for himself.
We eat in quiet. Fire pops softly. Snow taps the windows like it’s trying to get in but can’t. Every so often he presses a kiss to my hair, my shoulder, the side of my neck—small, wordless things that feel like promises.
When the plate’s empty he sets it aside and wraps both arms around me fully, pulling me in until there’s no space left.
“You were perfect,” he says against my hair. “So fucking perfect, Wren.”
My eyes sting. I blink hard, press my face into his neck so he won’t see. “I’ve never… felt safe. Not like this.”
His hold tightens. Not hard. Just enough. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you. Always.”
I believe him. Not because I have to. Because something in me finally stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop.
He adjusts the blanket so it cocoons us both. Then he leans back against the couch, taking me with him, until we’re half-reclined, my head on his chest, his heartbeat steady under my ear.
“Sleep if you want,” he whispers. “I’m right here.”
I let my eyes close. The warmth of him, the blanket, the dying fire—it all wraps around me like something I don’t have to earn.
Just before I drift, I feel his lips brush my forehead one last time.
“Mine,” he murmurs, so quiet I almost miss it.
The fire’s down to embers now, just enough glow left to outline the shapes in the living room—the couch we’ve wrecked, the blanket half-falling off, the empty plate on the coffee table. My body feels liquid, heavy in the best way, every muscle loose and humming from him. I’m still curled sideways in Calder’s lap, head on his chest, his heartbeat steady under my ear like a promise I’m too tired to question.
He hasn’t let go. Not once. His arms stay locked around me, one hand splayed wide on my lower back, the other stroking slow lines through my hair. It’s quiet except for the soft crackle of coals and the wind dying outside. I could fall asleep like this—honestly, I’m halfway there—but he shifts just enough that I feel the change in him.
“Wren,” he murmurs, voice low and rough from everything we’ve done. “Come on.”
I make a small, protesting sound, not ready to move, not ready to lose the cocoon of warmth we’ve made.
He chuckles—soft, almost tender—and before I can argue, his arms tighten. One slides under my knees, the other bands across my back, and he stands in one smooth motion, lifting me like I weigh nothing. My stomach flips, a quick, dizzy rush. I wrap my arms around his neck on instinct, face pressing into the warm hollow of his throat.
The living room is pitch black now—the fire too low to light more than a faint circle around the hearth. The power’s still out, windows dark except for the occasional flash of distant lightning. But Calder doesn’t hesitate. He knows this house the way I used to know every creaky floorboard in the old one—where to step so nothing groans, how many paces to the hallway, exactly when to turn.
His bare feet pad silently across the rug, then wood. Cool air brushes my skin where the blanket’s slipped, but his body heat keeps it from biting. I can feel the shift as we leave the open living room—the hallway narrows, walls closing in, the faint scent of pine and him growing stronger. He navigates without pause, without a single misstep, like the dark is just another room he owns.
I don’t speak. I don’t need to. My fingers curl into his hair, holding on, breathing him in. Every step jostles me gently against his chest, reminds me how solid he is, how completely he’s carrying me—literally, this time.
He shoulders open a door—his bedroom, I realize when the faint scent of his soap and clean sheets hits me. The room is darker still, no windows letting in even moonlight, but he moves like it’s midday. A few more steps, then he lowers me carefully onto the bed. The mattress dips under my weight, cool sheets ashock against my bare skin. He doesn’t let go right away—leans over me instead, one knee braced on the edge, caging me without trapping.
I can just make out the shape of him in the faint glow leaking from the hallway: broad shoulders, the line of his jaw, eyes catching the last ghost of light.
“You good?” he asks quietly.
I nod, throat tight. “Yeah.”
He exhales like he’s been waiting for that answer. Then he reaches past me, pulls the covers back, and slides in beside me. The bed is big—bigger than I expected—but he tucks me against him immediately, pulling me half on top of him so my head rests on his shoulder, one of his arms wrapped around my waist, the other hand finding mine and lacing our fingers together on his chest.
The blankets settle over us, heavy and warm. He presses a slow kiss to the top of my head.
“Sleep, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
I close my eyes. The dark doesn’t feel empty anymore. It feels like him—solid, quiet, safe.
Morning light filtersthrough the curtains in thin, pale stripes—soft gray, not the harsh white of full sun yet. The room is warm, sheets tangled around us, and Calder’s arm is heavy across my waist, holding me pinned to his side like I might disappear if he lets go. His breathing is slow, deep, still asleep. I lie there for a minute, listening to it, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back.
