She sighed. “Can I sit closer to the fire?”
“Of course.”
She stood, the blanket slipping slightly, and moved toward the hearth. The couch was too far now—too exposed. The floor near the fire was warm, the heat soaking into the wood, into bones that had been carrying too much for too long.
She sat cross-legged on the rug, staring into the flames.
I stayed where I was for three seconds.
Then five.
Then I joined her.
Not touching.
Just close enough that I could feel the warmth of her through the space between us.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
The fire crackled. The generator hummed steadily again. Outside, the woods remained still—but thegoodkind of still. The kind that meant no one was moving through it.
Rylie hugged the blanket tighter around herself. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this quiet before.”
I glanced at her and smiled. “You are pretty quiet. Not at all like the Rylie I know. Besides, it’s always quiet in Eagle River, at least most of the time.”
She nodded. “But there was always something. A radio. My dad moving around. At least a little noise.”
“I didn’t realize how loud my life in Dallas was,” she continued softly. “Until it stopped.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
“Loud doesn’t always mean alive,” I said.
She looked at me then. Really looked. The firelight painted shadows across my face, and I didn’t bother hiding them.
“I don’t know how you do this,” she said.
“Do what?”
“Carry all this.” She gestured vaguely. “The watching. The waiting. The… readiness.”
I considered the truth, then decided she deserved it.
“You don’t carry it,” I said. “You let it become part of you. Like breathing.”
Her brows knit together. “That sounds lonely.”
I didn’t answer.
Because it was.
She shifted closer without realizing she’d done it, her arm brushing mine.
The contact was accidental.
But neither of us moved away.
Her breath caught slightly, just enough that I noticed.
