“You okay?” he asked softly.
“More than okay.” My voice was quiet. “For the first time in a long while.”
He smiled against my hair. “Me too.”
For a long moment I listened to his breathing, memorizing the steadiness of it. His hand found mine under the blanket.
“Should we talk about the fact we didn’t use protection?” he asked, and I was relieved he was bringing it up.
“I’m on the pill. I’m clean,” I said to him.
“I’m clean too,” he said and his voice cracked. He lifted a hand and caressed my face. The look in his eyes said more than words ever could. “I don’t want barriers between us.”
His words carried weight, but the look in his eyes carried meaning.
“Me neither,” I yawned. My eyes lulled shut as a sense of contentment washed over me.
“You awake?” he murmured.
“Barely.”
“Good. Means I get another minute to look at you.”
I turned to him, my chest tight with something warm and aching. He brushed a kiss against my temple, then my cheek, then my lips. Slow, lingering. No rush. No fear. Eventually, we moved to the shower. Steam filled the tiny bathroom, the warm water washing away the cold from the night before. Eric brushed a damp strand of hair behind my ear and kissed my jaw. Gentle moments like that were always the ones that scared me most. Danger I understood. Kindness was trickier. He made love to me again against the shower wall as my palms braced the old blue tiles. The space was tight, but Eric took me from behind while his fingers rubbed my clit in circles that sent me over the edge again. This man had always been my everything. Maybe that’s why I rejected every man who ever hit on me since him. He had ruined me, and now he was ruining me all over again. After we both came for a second time that morning, we got washed up and left the shower.
As we dried up, he said, “Festival prep starts soon,” he said softly. “If we’re late, Sandy will smile and then judge us with her eyebrows.”
I laughed because he wasn’t wrong. We dressed in quiet ease, slipping back into an old rhythm without meaning to. My shoulder twinged when I reached for my sweater. Eric saw it.
“You should’ve said something earlier.” He frowned.
“It’s fine.”
“You always say that,” he grumbled.
“It’s usually true.” I shrugged.
He didn’t push. Instead, he held my jacket so I could slide it on without straining. His hand lingered a second longer than necessary, warm against my back before he stepped aside.
Outside, the cold hit my cheeks, crisp and sharp. The orchard stretched wide and frost-bright, a thin mist hanging low between the rows. It should have felt peaceful. It used to. But something inside me tugged tight, like a warning I couldn’t name. We walked to his truck. The gravel crunched softly under our boots, the only sound in the morning stillness.
Eric noticed. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just thinking.”
He didn’t ask about what, but I thought of my mother and the way she called me Little Thistle, like it was a reminder to stay strong now, especially with my brother losing his mind over me coming home.
We climbed inside the truck. The engine hummed to life, warm air blowing against my legs. Festival banners fluttered across Main Street as we pulled into town, the gold, burgundy, and deep green were bright enough to look cheerful, bright enough to look safe. But the quiet beneath the color felt wrong. People from town were setting up booths, carrying crates, hanging lights. Everything looked normal. Normal enough that no one else would think twice. But I could feel it. Like a shift inthe air as my skin prickled. I felt eyes lingering on me, like breath on the back of my neck. I reached for my seat belt, unbuckling it slowly. Whatever was going on with my brother wasn’t the whole story. There was something else bigger brewing, I just didn’t know what or who it could be. I straightened my shoulders. I was a little thistle. I was strong. I wouldn’t waiver. I wouldn’t back down, no matter what.
CHAPTER 23
Eric
Festival mornings always carried a certain kind of energy, with heated cider warming cold hands, kids dodging volunteers with armfuls of pumpkins, Dad shouting orders loud enough to wake the dead. Normally, the bustle grounded me. Today, every sound felt sharp. Harmony walked in step beside me, but her fingers were cold in mine, her gaze flickering toward every corner of the square, like she expected something or someone to step out of a hidden corner. Something was wrong. I’d felt it since the moment she’d gone pale near the pumpkin scales. Now, standing with her hand in mine, I felt it in my bones.
I squeezed gently. “You okay?”
She nodded, but her eyes didn’t meet mine. “Just tired.”
