GOOD DAY
WALK
WATER
YOURS
The last one makes his mouth tilt into a smile I feel in my stomach. I write it slower than the others. My chest tight. My stomach warm.
Sometimes I try to speak. Just a word. My lips shape the sound. I try so hard, but nothing comes.
When I brace for anger, that doesn’t come either. Instead, I always try again.
I remember a time a few weeks ago, when my breath sputtered out wrong, and a strange noise spilled from me—high and soft.
A laugh.
It startled me. Startled him too, so I clapped a hand over my mouth, unsure if I broke a rule. But Rafe’s eyes softened, warm spreading through them.
“There she is,” he whispered.
Something melted inside me.
And every time I think of that moment, I smile.
In the evenings, he sits in his chair by the fire, carving or mending tools. I sit close enough for my shoulder to feel the heat of his leg, then closer still until my head rests lightly against his knee. Close enough that I don’t feel steady without him.
The first time I did it, I tensed, waiting for harsh hands or orders.
Instead, his palm lowered to the back of my head, fingers sliding through my hair slow and careful. My whole body loosed at the touch. Not because I owed him for it. Because I wanted it. I stayed there until sleep pulled at my eyes.
Rafe always lets me sleep against him.
I tap Rafe’s wrist twice. It’s our signal for I want to go.
He looks down at my hand, then up at my face, always searching for fear first. My chest is tight, but it isn’t panic. It’s sharper than that. Brighter.
He nods once. “Alright, sweetheart. You track with me today.”
The words land deep.
I nod back, quick, almost shy, and take the coat he holds out. It swallows my hands. I tie the sleeves up with a strip of cloth, inhaling the scent—smoke, pine, him—and any nerves inside me steady.
When I glance up, he’s watching me. Not like I might break. Like he’s been waiting for me to come along with him while he does his favorite activity.
We step into the trees.
The forest breathes around us. Branches shift, leaves whisper, the low hush of aliveness but not hunting. My body loosens before I tell it to. I move ahead without thinking, crouching, reading the ground the way I always have.
A bent blade of grass. A stone nudged aside. A drag in the soft earth.
Fresh.
I press my fingers into the track.
Rafe comes up behind me, stopping where I can feel him but not touch him. “What do you see?”
I trace the shape into my palm. Wide pad. Claw marks.
