“Don’t tell anyone I told you. I need to act surprised when she says it again.”
He closes his eyes.
I eat a crisp apple. The porch is warm in the late afternoon sun. Despite the odds and most of my training, I’m having a good day. I want to make the most of it.
Jace comes home at dusk. Boots, jacket, and sawdust. We eat. Spool positions himself between us like a mediator, but neither of us says a word.
Later, I’m on the couch with a Mary Oliver from his shelf. I didn’t ask permission. He hasn’t told me not to touch his books.
He’s in the armchair by the window withBlood Meridianopen on his knee. The fire has burned down to an orange glow.Spool lies on the floor, chin on his paws, his one ear twitching in sleep.
The quiet hums with something I’ve never known.
No talking or performing. Just two people in a room full of books and firelight and pages turning. His breathing is steady and slow. The wind outside has gentled. The cabin creaks once, as if settling into itself, drawing us deeper into a surprising intimacy.
I read the same Oliver poem three times because the words keep slipping out of my brain.
My eyes keep snagging on him. His long legs stretch toward the stove. Book in one hand. The other, fingers loose, rests on the chair’s arm. Every shift of fabric and shallow breath pulls at my attention.
This is nothing like the dutiful silences I’d endured with others. Here, the hum feels less like empty space and more like a bridge, anchoring me to his presence. I turn a page and glance up.
He’s watching me. That familiar side-eye, angled through his hair, over the top of his book. Except this time it doesn’t slide away when I catch him. He doesn’t look away.
I see it.Want.Raw, specific, aimed at me. Like he’s been hiding, and for one unguarded second, it’s visible.
A firestorm erupts, scorching my neck, rushing into my cheeks. My lungs hitch. A sudden, electric awareness buzzes through my skin, my body, under the weight of his gaze.
As he focuses on his book, he grips the spine so the cover bends. His jaw locks. The scar pulls tight along his cheekbone.
Neither of us speaks.
I stare at the Oliver poem. My pulse is loud.
Jace stands. “More wood.”
He opens the door. The cold air rushes in behind him. I press the book to my chest and breathe.
Spool lifts his head. Looks at the door, at me, and then puts his chin back down.
“I know,” I tell him.
Nobody has ever wanted me the way Jace looked at me for half a second over the top ofBlood Meridianwith that raw, specific want, visible for one unguarded second through his defenses.
Later that night, I lie in bed and don’t read.
I listen to Jace move through the cabin. The stove door opening. The thunk of a log. The creak of the armchair.
I don’t make a list this time. I am done with lists.
I remember how he looked at me over the top of his book before he caught himself. And I understand something I didn’t yesterday. I’m not afraid the week will end.
I’m afraid it won’t be enough.
Outside, the wind picks up. The cabin walls groan. I press my face into the pillow and try to sleep.
Spool scratches at my door. I get up and open it. He pushes his way in, climbs onto the bed, and curls into my hip with a long sigh.
He’s the only thing in this cabin that has chosen me on purpose.
