Trigger
The cabin settled into a rhythm after the first day.
Not peace—never that—but something close enough to borrow.
Rylie slept in short stretches, the kind that came from exhaustion instead of comfort. Every time she stirred, my body reacted before my mind did. I learned the sound of her breathing. The way her brow creased right before she woke. The exact moment she’d had enough rest and needed distraction instead.
She hated feeling useless.
So I gave her jobs.
Nothing that strained her shoulder or wrists. Just small things—choosing what to cook, sorting supplies, giving me grief when I tried to hover too much. Watching her reclaim pieces of herself felt like watching someone stitch their own skin back together.
She was fierce like that.
By the third evening, she was sitting at the small kitchen table, wrapped in one of my flannels, hair pulled back loosely, a mug of tea cradled between her hands.
“You’re staring,” she said without looking up.
I didn’t bother denying it. “You’re bad at pretending nothing hurts.”
She smiled faintly. “You’re bad at pretending you don’t notice.”
I leaned against the counter. “Doc said you’d push too hard.”
“Doc doesn’t know me,” she replied. “You do.”
That landed right in my chest.
The fire popped behind us, the cabin glowing warm in the fading light. Outside, Ace and Havoc were rotating watch. Deputy Jones had checked in twice from town—nothing unusual. Too quiet, maybe, but quiet all the same.
Rylie lifted her eyes to mine. “You keep waiting.”
“For what?”
“For it to go wrong,” she said gently.
She wasn’t accusing. She was observant.
“I don’t trust stillness,” I admitted. “Not after what we’ve seen.”
She nodded, fingers tightening around the mug. “Me neither.”
I pushed off the counter and knelt in front of her chair, careful not to crowd her. I rested my hands on her knees, grounding myself as much as her.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” I said. “Tonight can just be… tonight.”
Her gaze softened. “I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen. I just don’t want it to be the only thing that defines us.”
God.
“Then let’s define this.”
She set the mug aside and slid her fingers into my hair, not tentative, not afraid—just real.
So damn real.
I tilted my head up and kissed her stomach through the flannel, then higher, then rested my cheek there like I belonged.
