I stared at his fingers, at the ridges of his knuckles and the tiny scars that mapped their own history along his skin. It was the first time in my life someone had held my hand all the way through the night and not let go, even in sleep.
I could’ve watched him for hours, but a sneeze snuck up and rattled through me before I could clamp it down. The sudden pain made me yelp. Burke was vertical in a blink, green eyeswide and scanning for threats. When he saw it was just me, his face broke into something between relief and sheepish panic.
“Hey, you’re up!” he said, too loud, then tried to modulate it back down to human. “Uh. How do you feel?”
I tried to smile, but my lip reminded me not to. “Like I lost a fight with a combine harvester.”
He squeezed my hand tighter, then gently set it on the comforter before shifting the chair closer. “If you want, I can break the combine’s kneecaps.”
I let out a laugh that was mostly a cough. “Pretty sure combines don’t have knees, but I appreciate the sentiment.”
He smirked, and for a second the lines around his eyes deepened, making him look older and softer at the same time. Then he got all business. “You need anything? Water, painkillers, breakfast?”
At the word “breakfast,” my stomach both lurched and rumbled. I wasn’t sure I could keep anything down, but the idea was intoxicating.
Burke must’ve seen the calculation on my face. “I can make toast. Or, like, toast-level difficulty foods. Jojo left a note that you’re not supposed to eat anything heavy yet, but I say we rebel.”
He offered an arm like I was royalty, and when I tried to sit up, he braced me under the shoulders and hauled me vertical with way less effort than I expected. I tried not to gasp when the room spun, but I must’ve made a noise because he hovered, ready to catch me if I toppled over.
It was embarrassing, but also…not. Not like before, when every little failure was an excuse for someone to call me weak. More like he was tuned into my bandwidth, listening for static and ready to boost the signal if I faded out.
Once I was upright, he shuffled me into a giant bathrobe—easily twice my size—and I was glad for it because the guest room was cold and my pajamas were a lost cause.
He steadied me all the way to the kitchen, moving slow so I wouldn’t have to limp too obviously. The house smelled like wood smoke and the faint ghost of last night’s bacon. It reminded me of holiday mornings, back before everything in my family went to shit.
He deposited me in a kitchen chair and started rummaging for supplies. I watched him move, all precision and muscle memory, like he’d been born knowing where the peanut butter was in any kitchen in the world.
It was weirdly comforting.
The fridge was covered in cartoons and grocery lists and something that looked like a crayon drawing of the ranch with “home” spelled out in shaky kid letters. He ignored it all, focused on the task.
I thought maybe he’d start talking about the weather or ask about my night, but instead he said, “Do you take your eggs scrambled or more like…egg-shaped?”
The question caught me off guard. “Uh, scrambled, if it’s not too much trouble.”
He grinned. “Scrambled is my only move, so you’re in luck.”
He cracked eggs with one hand, barely looking, and whisked them up with a fork so fast it made my head spin. The sizzle on the pan was immediate and holy. He found bread, popped slices in the toaster, and grabbed a tub of margarine from the fridge, all without breaking stride.
When the eggs hit the plate, they were a perfect, fluffy yellow. The toast landed next to them, golden and gleaming.
He slid the plate in front of me, along with a fork and a glass of orange juice. “Eat slow,” he cautioned. “And if you want to bail out halfway, just say the word.”
I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until the first bite. The food was perfect, not gourmet, but the kind of thing you crave when you haven’t felt safe in weeks. I scarfed it in careful mouthfuls, chewing each bite into submission so it wouldn’t rebel on the way down.
Burke made himself a plate and sat across from me. He waited until I’d finished half the eggs before he said, “So. Sheriff Calloway came by last night after you fell asleep.”
I flinched, remembering the glare of police lights from yesterday and the sound of my own voice saying, “I want to press charges this time.”
It sounded a lot braver in my head.
Burke must’ve seen the panic on my face. He shook his head, reassuring. “No, it’s good. He picked up Dennis at the Jenkins place around two. Found him passed out in the kitchen, fighting imaginary monsters. Last I heard, he was in lockup, and nobody’s bailing him out for at least a day or two.”
I processed that. Relief poured through me, pure and unfamiliar, like a fever breaking. But it was chased immediately by the fear that it couldn’t last.
“He’ll get out,” I said, my voice small. “He always gets out.”
Burke reached across the table, his hand finding mine again. “Maybe. But this time, there’s an actual paper trail. And Calloway’s not screwing around.” He squeezed my fingers, then let go. “You’re safe here, Danny. You don’t have to worry about him for now.”
