No one would touch her again.
39
Rylie
Night came softly.
Not the sharp kind that swallowed sound and made shadows feel crowded—but the slow kind, easing in through the trees, carrying the scent of pine and cooling earth. The fire burned low, painting the cabin in gold and amber, everything warmer than it had any right to be.
Trigger moved around the kitchen quietly, deliberate in that way of his that made even small things feel purposeful. He reheated soup, sliced bread, set a candle between us like this was just another evening—like my wrists hadn’t been bound less than forty-eight hours ago.
I watched him while he worked.
The tension in his shoulders had eased some. Not gone—but loosened, like a knot someone had finally started to untangle. His movements were slower tonight. Less guarded.
“You’re doing it again,” he said without turning.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like you’re memorizing something.”
I smiled. “Maybe I am.”
He glanced over his shoulder, something unreadable flickering across his face before he set the pot aside and joined me at the table.
We ate quietly. Not because we didn’t have things to say—but because the silence didn’t feel empty. It felt… shared.
Afterward, he insisted on checking my bandages again. I let him. Mostly because of the way his hands shook just slightly when he thought I wasn’t watching.
“You don’t have to hover,” I said gently.
“I know,” he replied. “I want to.”
That landed in my heart.
Later, we sat on the couch, the fire down to glowing embers. I leaned into him, his arm warm and solid around my shoulders, my head tucked beneath his chin. His heartbeat was steady—slow enough to calm mine.
“Do you ever think about after?” I asked quietly.
He didn’t pretend not to know what I meant.
“All the time,” he said.
“What does it look like?”
He shifted so he could look at me properly. “Somewhere quieter. Maybe not this quiet—but close. A place where I don’t have to sleep with one ear open every night.”
I traced the seam of his shirt with my finger. “And me?”
A smile touched his mouth. Soft. Certain.
“You’re there,” he said. “Every version of it.”
My chest tightened.
“I don’t want to disappear into your life,” I said. “I want my own space in it.”
His hand slid to my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek. “Good. Because I don’t want you smaller than you are.”
