"It made me want to hurt them." He said it flatly, unflinchingly. "It made every protective instinct I have scream that you were mine and they had no right to touch you." He looked away, shame flickering across his features. "I know that's not fair. I know that's not what you want. I'm just..." He took a breath. "I'm trying to be honest. Like you asked." He finished roughly.
"Thank you." I reached out and turned his face back toward me, making him meet my eyes. "For telling me. For being honest even when it's hard." I held his gaze. "I can't promise it won't be difficult. For any of you. For me too." I let him see the truth of that. "But I can promise that I'm not going anywhere. That you're not competing for something I'm going to snatch away." I stroked my thumb across his cheekbone. "There's room for all of you. If you can learn to make room for each other." I said it firmly, letting the words settle between us.
He was quiet for a long moment, processing. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"I can try." He said it like a vow. "For you, I can try." He pulled me closer, tucking me against his chest, his arms wrapping around me like he was shielding me from the world. "I haven't let anyone this close in a long time." He murmured against my hair. "It terrifies me." He admitted quietly.
"I know." I pressed my face into his chest, breathing in his scent—rain and moss and storm. "It terrifies me too." I admitted, my voice muffled against his shirt. We stayed like that for a long time, floating in the middle of his secret lagoon, wrapped around each other while the bayou woke up around us. Eventually, he loosened his hold and picked up the paddle.
"Hungry?" He asked, a hint of something that might have been a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, his pale eyes lighter now than they'd been all morning, some of the tension eased from the hard line of his shoulders.
"Starving." I admitted, suddenly aware that I hadn't eaten since dinner the night before, my stomach choosing that moment to growl audibly in the quiet of the lagoon.
"Good." He turned the canoe and started paddling back the way we'd come, his movements smooth and sure, the muscles in his forearms flexing with each stroke. "I know a place." He said it with quiet confidence, glancing back at me over his shoulder, and I found myself smiling at the unexpected warmth in his pale eyes.
The "place" turned out to be a tiny diner off a road I'd never noticed, the kind of establishment that looked like it had been there since the dawn of time and would probably outlast civilization itself. The sign just said "EATS" in faded red letters, and the parking lot was full of pickup trucks and work vans.
"You trust me with your secret lagoon and your secret diner?" I teased as he held the door open for me. "I'm starting to think you like me." I smiled up at him, watching the way the morning light caught his pale eyes.
"Starting to think I do too." He said it quietly, his hand finding the small of my back as he guided me inside, the touch warm and grounding. The diner was everything I expected—cracked vinyl booths, a counter with spinning stools, the smell of coffee and bacon and decades of good cooking. An older woman behind the counter looked up when we walked in, and her weathered face broke into a genuine smile.
"Silas Boudreaux." She said it like a greeting and a scolding all at once, setting down the coffee pot she was holding. "Ain't seen you in months. Thought maybe you'd finally learned to cook for yourself." She wiped her hands on her apron and came around the counter to study him with sharp eyes.
"Mae." He nodded, something almost warm in his voice. "Brought a friend this time." He glanced at me, something soft flickering in his pale eyes. Mae turned that sharp gaze on me, taking in everything from my messy braid to my rumpled sweater to the way I was standing close to Silas's side.
"Well, well." She said, her lips curving into a knowing smile. "About time you found someone. I was starting to worry you'd turn into a hermit for real." She gestured toward a booth in the corner. "Go on, sit. I'll bring coffee." She shooed us toward the booth with flapping hands.
"She seems nice." I said as we slid into the booth, the vinyl creaking beneath us, watching Mae bustle back behind the counter with the easy efficiency of someone who'd been doing this for decades.
"She knew my mother." Silas said quietly, his pale eyes fixed on the scratched tabletop. "Before she passed. Mae used to feed me after school when I was a kid, before my dad got home from work." He looked up at me, something guarded in his expression. "She's one of the only people from my old life who doesn't look at me like I'm broken." He admitted, his voice rough.
"You're not broken." I reached across the table and took his hand. "Damaged, maybe. Scarred. But not broken." I squeezed his fingers, watching his expression shift. "Broken things can't be fixed. You're still being put back together." I held his gaze, letting him see the truth of it.
He stared at me for a long moment, his pale eyes bright with something I couldn't quite name.
"How do you do that?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper, his pale eyes searching my face with an intensity that made my skin warm, his calloused fingers still wrapped around mine on the tabletop.
"Do what?" I tilted my head, genuinely confused, my green-gold eyes searching his face for clues to what he meant.
"See me. The real me. Not the soldier, not the damage, not the walls I've built." He shook his head slowly. "Harper and Remy—I understand why they're drawn to you. You're beautiful, you're smart, you're fierce. But it's more than that." He turned my hand over in his, tracing the lines of my palm with one calloused finger. "You make people want to be honest. Want to be better." He looked up at me through pale lashes. "That's a rare gift." He finished quietly.
"Or a curse." I said it lightly, but there was truth underneath. "Not everyone appreciates being seen so clearly." I admitted, thinking of all the people who'd pulled away from me over the years because I noticed too much, saw too deeply.
"Their loss." He said it simply, firmly, like it was an undeniable fact, his pale eyes holding mine with a certainty that made warmth bloom in my chest. Mae appeared with coffee and a knowing smile, took our orders without writing anything down, and disappeared back into the kitchen. The food that followed was simple and perfect—eggs and bacon and biscuits with gravy, hash browns crispy on the edges, orange juice fresh-squeezed.
We talked while we ate—about small things this time, after the heaviness of the morning. He told me about his father, a quiet man who worked in a paper mill and never quite knew what to do with a son who was more comfortable with a rifle than a conversation. I told him about the summers I spent with Marguerite, learning to identify plants and read the weather and trust my instincts.
"She sounds like she was something special." Silas said as he pushed his empty plate away, his pale eyes soft with understanding, his hand still resting near mine on the table like he couldn't quite bring himself to break the contact.
"She was." I smiled, the grief distant now, worn smooth by time. "You would have liked her. She had no patience for bullshit either." I took a sip of my coffee.
Something almost like a smile flickered across his face.
"What?" I asked, catching the expression, setting down my coffee cup and leaning forward slightly, curious about what had softened his usually guarded features.
"Nothing. Just..." He shook his head. "I like this. Talking to you. Being with you." He met my eyes across the table. "It feels easy. Nothing in my life has felt easy in a long time." He admitted, something raw and honest in his voice.
"This doesn't feel easy to me." I told him truthfully. "It feels terrifying and wonderful and completely impossible." I reached across the table and took his hand again. "But I think the best things usually do." I squeezed his fingers gently. He turned my hand over and pressed a kiss to my palm, his lips warm against my skin.
