Maybe I’m enough. Not yet. But… maybe.
Chapter 5
Tex
The first thing I notice when I wake is the quiet.
Not the hollow quiet I used to chase when I first got out, when silence was the only thing that didn’t demand anything from me.
This is different. This quiet has weight. Warmth.
Jane is here.
Twelve years of waking up alone, and one night with her down the hall rewrites everything. I didn’t even hear her breathing, but I knew she was there. I felt it like a shift in the air pressure.
I can’t hear her. No footsteps. No voice. Just... nothing.
I sit up slowly and let my eyes adjust. The air in the bedroom is cool. The cabin is warm. Familiar. Safe.
Still, my chest feels tight.
I don’t do this—waking up oriented around someone else's presence.
But here I am, already listening for her. Already adjusting my morning around the possibility of her.
I pull on a t-shirt, jeans, and socks, then step into the hallway.
The guest room door is shut.
Good.
I head into the living room and stop.
The quilt I draped over her last night is folded neatly. Squared, like she tried to put it back the way it belonged. The couch cushions are fluffed. The pillow is straight.
But the faint dip in the seat tells the truth.
She slept here. Then at some point in the night, she must’ve moved. Quietly and carefully, as if she didn’t want to be caught needing warmth.
Something in my chest cracks. She’s already trying to make herself smaller. Tidier. More manageable. As if she thinks that’s what I want.
I rub my palm over my jaw and exhale through my nose.
She’s going to wreck my schedule.
And the strangest part is, I don’t mind. For the first time in twelve years, I don’t mind.
I head into the kitchen and put coffee on—grind, scoop, brew. The routine steadies me. I set out two mugs, then catch myself and freeze.
Two mugs.
I stare at them like they’re evidence of a crime. I don’t bring people here. Not since the service, when “bringing someone close” became the same thing as “giving the world a target.”
But Jane isn’t a target. She’s a storm. And maybe I’m tired of building shelters against weather that never comes.
I turn my attention back to the stove and start cooking bacon and eggs because feeding someone is practical. Easy. Something I know how to do without saying anything stupid.
The smell fills the cabin—salt, fat, warmth. I’m plating the eggs when the floorboard in the hallway creaks.
