Once we’re in the room, I settle her on the armchair with a kiss to her forehead. Then, I pack our bags myself. Her clothes first, folded with more care than my own. The charger she always forgets, coiled and slipped into the side pocket of her bag. I tuck everything into place without asking. I’ve already memorized where she keeps her things, how she likes her toiletries separated, which shirts she sleeps in. There’s nothing left to ask.
By the time we pull onto the highway, the light is beginning to fade. Olivia reclines her seat, curls into the window, and lets her eyes slip closed. I watch the subtle twitch of her fingers, thesoft drag of her breath. She never lets herself go fully still, even in sleep. Like rest is an indulgence she can’t afford.
She stirs as we turn off the main road. Blinks once, slow and groggy.
"Where are we going?" she asks, her voice rough with sleep.
I glance at her, my chest tightening. "Somewhere that won’t ask anything of you," I say.
She doesn’t respond. She simply watches me for a long moment, then turns her gaze back to the window. Her hand creeps over the console between us, and I take it without hesitation.
Our destination isn’t far and the house is ready. I made sure of that before we even left Boston, anticipating the need for an escape from Ashby.
Olivia’s still sleeping when we turn onto the coastal road. Her head rests lightly against the glass, her hand still in mine.
The Caldwell housein Cape Cod sits beyond a winding stretch of road and an unmarked gate, quiet beneath a canopy of sycamores and salt-worn sky. It isn’t the kind of property that appears on maps. The driveway curves long and slow, like the place has no interest in being found quickly.
It’s the kind of quiet that presses in from all sides. The kind you can only afford if you have the means to keep the rest of the world out.
I haven’t brought anyone here before. This place is a kind of sanctuary. A holdout against the noise. And some part of me must have known that if I ever brought Olivia here, I wouldn’t want to leave without her.
She doesn’t ask where we’re going. I think she knows the question would ruin whatever spell has settled over us since leaving Ashby. When we pull up to the house, she blinks at it like she isn’t sure it’s real. Pale wood, weathered stone, and whitewashed cedar siding with windows facing the sea.
She stands in the doorway for a moment, her bags at her feet, her arms tucked into herself. I don’t interrupt whatever is happening behind her eyes. I just unlock the door, carry our things inside, and watch her step barefoot across the polished oak floors.
She walks from room to room without touching anything. Her gaze drifts over the built-in shelves, the pale linen drapes shifting with the breeze, the stretch of coastline beyond the windows. She pauses at the bedroom, staring at the open closet.
She’s still subdued in a way that makes me want to carry her through the threshold and lay her in sunlight until she blooms again.
She doesn’t say much the entire night. She changes into a T-shirt and climbs into bed beside me, curling into my chest. I hold her while she falls asleep and stare at the ceiling until the shadows shift and the sky outside lightens.
She sleeps soundly, the kind of sleep you only get when no one expects you to wake up performing.
I don’t move. I just let the weight of her settle into my body and pretend that I deserve it.
The next day, she stands at the water’s edge while I make coffee, wind in her hair, the cuffs of her jeans soaked where the tide kisses her ankles. She comes back inside with sea glass in her pocket and sand between her toes.
She falls asleep that afternoon in the armchair, a book half-open on her lap. I sit beside her and read nothing at all.
The house is big enough to give her space, but she never wanders far. I cook for us—sautéed fish, crisp vegetables, rice—and she leans against the counter while I plate the food, the back of her hand brushing mine once, then again.
We eat on the deck, wrapped in sweaters, the wind salted and soft.
She doesn’t say much. But she smiles. And that is enough.
By the third morning, she is singing softly while brushing her hair. A tune I don’t recognize. I memorize every note anyway. She asks if we can make pancakes. I say yes before she finishes the sentence.
Later, I catch her staring out the window, her mouth tilted in something close to wonder. More of her is surfacing—little by little—like she’s been underwater so long, she’s forgotten what air could taste like.
I touch her constantly, and she lets me. A hand on her back as she passes behind me. My lips at her shoulder when she bends over the stove. My fingers skimming the inside of her wrist while we stand in silence, waiting for the kettle to boil. She folds into each one without thought.
It should satiate me.
Instead, I felt starved.
Now, we sit in the cool night air wrapped in a blanket on the back deck, watching the tide creep over the sand.
I don’t remember deciding to say it. The words are already rising by the time my mouth is moving.
