Which seems to be her default reply when she doesn’t know what else to say.
I take a slow breath and drag my focus back to the coffee, the eggs, the rules.
“You moved.”
She blinks. “What?”
“From the couch,” I clarify. “At some point.”
Her chin lifts. “You monitoring my sleep habits now?”
“I noticed the quilt folded,” I say. “That’s all.”
Her mouth quirks. “I didn’t want you to think I was... messy.”
I stare at her, then at the neatness she tried to leave behind. “You don't have to tidy yourself for me.”
The words come out softer than I intended. Because I see what she did. She woke in the night, uncomfortable on the couch, and instead of just leaving it and going to bed, she made sure to leave no trace. No evidence of need. No proof she’d taken up space.
She drops her gaze to her plate and shovels another bite as if food is easier than feelings.
I let it go. For now.
“Plans today?”
“Plans,” she repeats, as if the concept is foreign. “Like... a schedule?”
“Yes.”
She laughs. “Of course you have a schedule.”
I ignore that. “I've got chores. Fence checks. Feed run. You can stay here if you want.”
Jane’s eyes narrow. “Is that a test?”
“It’s an option.”
I don’t tell her what to do. I give her choices. There’s a difference.
“I don’t do ‘stay here,’” she says immediately. “I’m coming.”
I should be annoyed. Instead, relief flickers—quick and unwelcome.
“Fine,” I say. “Boots. Coat. It’s cold.”
She grins like she’s won. “Yes, sir.”
Outside, the morning bites hard. The sky is a pale, washed-out winter blue. Snow lies thick in the field, glittering as if the earth had been dusted with sugar.
Jane steps onto the porch and pauses, looking out at the open space and inhaling deeply. “It’s... quiet.”
“It can be.”
“And nobody’s watching.”
“Plenty of people are watching,” I say. “Just not the kind you’re used to.”
She glances at me. “Meaning?”
