I fished my notebook out, made a note, then looked up. “How’d you know that?”
He tapped his temple. “Maps. Aerial photos. I read every inch of the deed before I came.”
We stood in silence, both breathing hard from the climb.
It happened then, as it always did: I said too much, or the wrong thing. I don’t even know what made me do it, except that the air was so clean, and Rawley was actually listening. I wanted to share the parts of myself that I usually kept locked away.
“I used to think if I worked hard enough, my parents would take me back. That I could prove I wasn’t a mistake.” My voice was small, but it carried. “But when they found out about me—being omega, being…” I let it trail off. “They just threw me out. Never called again.”
The silence stretched. I braced for the sneer, the pity, the polite “sorry” that never meant anything.
But Rawley just said, “Fuck them.”
I looked up, startled.
He was looking right at me, jaw clenched, eyes gone hard and bright. “You’re not a mistake. You work harder than anyone I’ve ever met. Anybody who can’t see that isn’t worth your time.”
I felt my throat go tight, chest filling with something hot and raw. I wanted to thank him, but the words stuck.
He must have seen the look on my face, because he stepped closer, voice low and rough as gravel. “You’re safe here, Jojo. Nobody’s going to hurt you on my watch.”
It hit me then, what he was really saying. Not just a promise of safety, but a claim, an oath. My pulse hammered in my ears. I felt my neck flush, the color creeping up to my cheeks, but I didn’t look away.
“Okay,” I managed.
He nodded once, satisfied, then turned to start back down the hill. I followed, my heart thudding, the weight of his words echoing inside me.
We made it back to the house at sundown, both mud-splattered and starving. I felt changed, like something had shifted in my bones. The old fear was still there, but now it had company—a new, dangerous hope that maybe, just maybe, I could have a place here.
And maybe, just maybe, I could have something more.
I peeled off my muddy boots at the porch and stepped inside. My my legs were jellied from chasing Rawley’s impossible stride all day, but it was a good kind of tired—the kind that meant you’d earned your dinner and then some.
I headed for the kitchen, where the old linoleum felt cool and forgiving under my sore feet. I washed my hands, scrubbing hard at the creases of my palms, then surveyed the contents of the pantry with the scrutiny of a four-star chef. There was some wilted kale, an onion, a sack of potatoes, and a stick of butter.
I could work with that.
I started the skillet, rolling butter around the pan until it foamed. I peeled and cubed the potatoes, added them with a sizzle, and watched them go golden at the edges. The scent lifted and wrapped around me, homey and rich, chased by the bite of raw onion and the sweet undernote of garlic I’d rescued from a back shelf.
Rawley came in and watched from the threshold, arms crossed, leaning like he owned the space and everything in it. Hedidn’t say anything, but I could feel his eyes on me, heavy as a hand between my shoulder blades.
I kept my head down and worked, hands flying through the old rituals: salt, pepper, a glug of oil. I tossed in the chopped kale, knowing it would cook down to nothing, but at least I could say I tried.
The kitchen light was yellow and dim, the old kerosene lamp humming a little when I turned it on. Outside, the sun burned the edge of the horizon, lighting the clouds up blood-orange and pink. The shadows stretched long and soft across the counters, turning every surface into a half-remembered dream.
Rawley shifted his weight, clearing his throat. “Need help?”
I shook my head, but not in a mean way. “Almost done. But you could set the table?”
He nodded, grabbed two plates from the cabinet and silverware from the old wooden box by the sink. He moved around the kitchen like he’d lived here his whole life, every step sure and deliberate. He even found the napkins—paper, but still—and set them with a kind of precision that made me smile.
When I finished, I spooned the hash onto the plates, added a fried egg to each, and brought them over. We sat, facing each other across the battered wood, the light catching in the little dings and scars of a hundred years’ worth of meals.
We ate in silence at first, shoveling food with the single-mindedness of men who’d burned twice their body weight in calories since breakfast. The only sound was the click of fork against plate and the distant whine of the wind in the chimney.
Halfway through, Rawley broke the silence. “You ever cook for a crowd?”
I swallowed a mouthful of potato and shrugged. “Just the bakery. We used to have to bake enough for the whole school district, plus half the town. I liked it, though. There’s a rhythm to it.”
