The wind carried a handful of leaves between us. For a moment, it felt like the orchard was holding its breath. We walked the rows in near silence. When I slipped in a muddy patch, his hand shot out, steadying me. His fingers curled around my waist. A warm, grounding touch.
“Still clumsy,” he murmured.
“Still bossy,” I shot back.
But his thumb brushed my hip before he let go. And the warmth lingered. I wanted to tell him about the message but something was holding me back, and I knew exactly what it was.
By evening, the house glowed with lamplight and the smell of roasted chicken. Dinner buzzed with laughter, Pierre teasing Sandy about her cooking, Asher dropping by and leaving muddy tracks everywhere. It felt… normal. Like a life borrowed from someone else’s story.
After dinner, Sandy nudged my shoulder.
“You’ve got a good man looking out for you,” she said.
“He’s not mine.” Although, I wished he was.
“I didn’t say he was.” She smiled gently. “But you’d be lucky if he was.”
Her words sank deep, knocking something loose in my chest. The place where my mother’s warmth still lived in memories: her humming while we baked, the smell of lemon tarts, her teasing me about licking the bowl.
Then the memory of the crash. Of the police saying it was an accident. Of Marcel’s rage.
Of the whispers that followed. I stepped onto the porch to clear the tightness in my throat. The air was crisp, the orchard shimmering with frost. A thin ribbon of mist drifted through the trees. Winter was coming early and my life was unraveling faster than I could blink.
Behind me, the door opened softly. Eric stepped out, hair damp from a shower, wearing a charcoal thermal shirt and flannel pants. He handed me a mug of tea, fingers brushing mine.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
He sank beside me, shoulders barely touching. “Cold?”
“Always.”
He looked out over the orchard. “Becket said there’s talk of a hearing next month.”
My heart stopped.
“A hearing?”
“For Marcel’s appeal,” he said softly. “Nothing official yet. But if it gets approved…”
My throat tightened. Marcel out of prison meant danger wasn’t coming, it was already here. And whoever had left that thistle in my loft was part of it.
“I’m tired,” I whispered. “Not the kind that sleep fixes. The kind that comes from running.”
“You don’t have to run anymore,” he murmured.
“How do you know?” I watched the lines of his face, his square jaw, the depth in his coal eyes looking for an answer.
His gaze met mine, steady and fierce. “Because you’re not facing this alone.”
“And if I don’t know how to stop running?” It was the honest truth.
His hand covered mine—warm, solid, and patient. “Then let me show you.”
My breath hitched, something fragile and terrified opening in my chest.
“I don’t want to be scared anymore,” I whispered.
