Chapter Four
~ Macon ~
There’s a particular kind of dawn in Montana, the kind that grinds into you before it even thinks about softening. No slow gradation of gold or pink. Just a cold light leaking in through the window, flattening the world to grayscale.
I woke to it, every cell in my body on edge, but I didn’t move. Not right away. My arm was slung across Carter’s midsection, his back nestled against my chest, and I stayed frozen in place as if the bed itself had declared a ceasefire.
His body was all angles and warmth beneath the covers, the old quilt pulled up to his chin. In sleep, Carter’s face was almost childish, the tension he wore while awake gone, replaced by a slackness I could never manage.
I let my hand rest just above the rise of his belly. Even in the low light, you could see it, the newness of it, how it made everything else—his narrow hips, his ribcage, the shallow dip at his collarbone—secondary.
The little bump had a gravity that I felt more than saw, drawing my palm down, reminding me of exactly what I’d done, who I’d become, and what I’d need to be from here out.
I counted my breathing, kept it slow and regular so I wouldn’t wake him. I wanted to, but I didn’t. Selfish as it was, I needed another few minutes of him just existing in the same room, unguarded, unconcerned, safe.
After five minutes—by the wall clock, not guesswork—I started the extraction. I’d done this a thousand times in darker, less forgiving places. But there was no IED here, just the minefield of Carter’s feelings and the risk of losing him again if I misstepped.
I peeled my arm back, inch by inch, waiting for the twitch that would signal he was waking, but he stayed deep under. Ipropped myself on one elbow, studying his profile. The truth was, I’d never really studied him before. Not like this. Not with the idea that he might be permanent.
He had a scar under his chin, a pale nick, probably from some stupid childhood fall. His lips were parted, breath coming out in a whistle through his nose, and one hand was fisted in the edge of the pillow like he was afraid the world would snatch it away if he let go.
My hand drifted to his stomach. I let my thumb rest just above the rise. There was a pulse there, so faint it might have been my imagination, but I chose to believe it was something else. Something new, something not yet ruined by the world outside this bed.
Yesterday felt like a fever dream. Carter, materializing in the yard like a ghost conjured by guilt. The argument with Rawley. The way Carter had looked at me—not as a savior or a mistake, but as a man he hoped wouldn’t run again.
I bent forward and pressed my lips to Carter’s temple, just enough to let myself remember what he smelled like—shampoo and salt, a trace of whatever lotion he’d filched from the guest bathroom. I hovered there, breathing him in, before finally letting go and rolling out of bed.
The bedroom was cold. My boots were on the floor where I’d left them last night, next to the shirt I’d peeled off when Carter started shivering and demanded every blanket in the room. I dressed quietly, first the thermal, then the flannel, then the jeans, soft with years of wear and a hundred washes.
I paused at the foot of the bed, took in the scene one last time. Carter, half-buried in blankets, his belly a soft curve beneath the faded navy t-shirt. His hand had migrated to where mine had been, cradling the swell. He looked peaceful, if you ignored the tension behind his eyes even in sleep.
I told myself it was okay to leave him. That he’d wake up, remember the night, and understand that someone had to keep the world spinning while he got his rest.
I left the door cracked, just in case.
The hallway was all old wood and old ghosts. The boards creaked, but only a little; I’d memorized every loose plank my first week here, mapped them like a safe route through enemy terrain. I padded down, past the old photographs of Steele men in uniforms and suits, and into the mouth of the kitchen.
The smell of coffee hit me before I saw Rawley. He’d been up for hours, probably. That was his way—anticipate the threat, stay one step ahead, even if the only enemy was his own thoughts.
I paused at the threshold, squaring my shoulders, hands braced against the doorframe. My knuckles were white and I made myself loosen the grip. It didn’t matter how many fights you’d been in; facing your best friend after knocking up his baby brother was never going to feel routine.
The kitchen was bright compared to the rest of the house, every window pouring in the sullen, metallic light of early morning. Rawley stood at the stove, back to me, arms crossed. His posture was parade ground perfect, not an ounce of slack in him. Two mugs on the counter, one steaming, one still waiting.
I cleared my throat. He didn’t turn.
I stepped inside, the soles of my boots sticking a little on the worn linoleum. I said, “You’re up early.”
His jaw flexed. “Didn’t sleep.”
I nodded, not expecting more. I reached for the empty mug and filled it, black as sin, then leaned against the far counter. I kept my body language open, nonthreatening, like we’d been taught in conflict de-escalation, though I doubted that mattered here.
The silence stretched. It wasn’t a comfortable one, but it was honest, and that counted for something.
I sipped the coffee. It was so strong it nearly stripped my tongue, but I welcomed the burn. “You want to yell at me now, or after?”
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes flat and cold. “If I wanted to yell, I’d have started last night. I’m just trying to figure out if you’re staying or if you’re going to disappear again.”
The question wasn’t a question. I let it hang there, let it seep into the cracks of the old house.
