FOURTEEN
CLARA
The late-afternoon duskturned Wes’s house into a postcard—winter light fading soft and blue over the pines, the snow outside smoothing everything into something almost peaceful.
Almost.
I came into the house with my arms full. A grocery bag cutting into my fingers, another bumping my hip, a cheap string of twinkle lights looped around my wrist like an afterthought I refused to overthink.
I was choosing—actively choosing—to be in a good mood.
The farm had lit something back up in me. Options. Momentum. Elodie’s immediate yes. A plan that belonged to me. I carried that feeling into the house like it was a coat I could shrug on and off whenever the air got too heavy.
My keys hit the bowl on the console table with a clack.
Somewhere deeper in the house, I heard movement.
Not the quiet shuffling I’d come to associate with Wes these past few days. This was rhythmic. Controlled. A low exhale that sounded like effort. A muted grunt.
Curious without meaning to be, I stepped forward and angled my head toward the living room.
Wes was on the floor in front of the couch, a mat beneath him, his shirt darkened with sweat at the collar and down his back. The tight tee clung to him like it had given up the fight, putting his body on full display in the most unfair, casual way—hard lines of muscle and broad shoulders and those ridged, stupid abs pressing through fabric every time his torso lifted.
Crunch. Exhale.
Crunch. Grunt.
His face was turned slightly away, jaw clenched, brows heavy like he was taking it out on the air itself. He didn’t look up. He didn’t acknowledge me.
Relief should’ve been the first thing I felt.
It wasn’t.
Heat climbed my throat, fast and unwanted, and I tightened my grip on the grocery bags like that could anchor me to something normal. My pulse did this stupid little quick-step in my wrist.
Get it together, Clara.
My gaze dropped to my left hand as I stepped toward the kitchen, as if I needed proof I was still myself. The ring was still there, bright and ridiculous against my knuckle. Greg’s idea of what my future was supposed to look like. A shitty plan that had already cracked apart.
I flexed my fingers once, and the diamond caught the dying light, throwing it back like it was mocking me.
I rolled my eyes at myself.Jesus, not now.
I shoved the thought into the same box as the shower incident and the upstairs silence and the fact that Wes was making my brain short-circuit with nothing but sit-ups.
Cooking was my escape hatch.
I set the bags on the counter and started unpacking like I was hosting a cooking show for an audience of one. Onion. Garlic. A package of ground beef. Pasta. A jar of marinara as backupin case I chickened out of making sauce from scratch. A loaf of crusty bread. Parmesan. Butter.
I wanted comfort food. Something that smelled like effort. Something that made a house feel lived in, even when the people inside it were determined to haunt it.
A pot hit the stove. Water turned on. I peeled an onion and chopped it fast, the knife thudding against the cutting board with the kind of purpose that steadied me.
The first sizzle when it met the pan put a giddy pep in my step. I checked the recipe twice and followed every step perfectly.
I let myself hum under my breath as I stirred, the sound quiet enough not to announce itself, just a thread of noise that made the kitchen feel less like a mausoleum.
From the living room, Wes grunted again. A harder sound this time, like he was pushing past a limit.
