So this is peace.
Chapter Twenty: Elliot
Twoweekslater,Iwake to the smell of coffee and the sound of snow falling outside the window.
The cottage is warm, the fire already crackling in the hearth. Pale morning light filters through the curtains, painting the room in soft greys and golds. I stretch under the blankets, feeling the pleasant ache of muscles that have finally learned to relax.
Jace isn't beside me. His side of the bed is cool, which means he's been up for a while.
I find him in the kitchen, standing at the stove, spatula in hand. He's wearing a soft grey sweater I bought him from the village market last week, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His feet are bare on the wooden floor.
He looks almost domestic. Almost normal.
It still catches me off guard sometimes, seeing him like this. The Reaper, the weapon, the man who killed two hundred and seventeen people without feeling anything at all—standing in a kitchen making eggs like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"You're staring," he says without turning around.
"You're making breakfast."
"I make breakfast every morning."
"I know. I'm still not used to it."
He glances over his shoulder, and there's something in his expression that might be amusement. Or fondness. I'm learning to read the subtle shifts in his face, the tiny movements that communicate what his words often don't.
"Sit," he says. "It's almost ready."
I slide onto one of the stools at the counter and wrap my hands around the mug of coffee he's already poured for me. It's exactly the way I like it—strong, a little sugar, no milk. He remembers everything. Files it away in that vast internal archive he maintains.
I used to find that unsettling. Now it just feels like being known. He smirks as he dishes up our plates and serves them before taking a seat.
“Smells amazing.”
“Same as always, babe, nothing new.”
My eyes roll and he chuckles. “Yeah, but it’s almost like I can smell the love.”
“Yeha, Yeah. Eat your food like a good boy.”
I reach across the counter and take his hand. His fingers curl around mine, automatic now, a gesture that's become as natural as breathing.
"Thank you," I say.
"Eat your breakfast."
I laugh, and the sound surprises me. It still does, sometimes. The ability to laugh, to feel light, to exist in a moment without waiting for it to shatter.
I eat.
After breakfast, we walk.
The path behind the cottage leads up into the mountains, winding through pine forest and across frozen streams. The snow is deep, but Jace cleared a trail yesterday, and we follow it now, breath misting in the cold air.
He walks beside me, close enough that our shoulders brush. He's always close now. Always within reach. I don't think he does it consciously anymore, it's become instinct, this need to keep me in his orbit.
I don't mind. I have the same need.
"What are you thinking about?" I ask.
