But it’s a prayer. A plea. A warning to myself.
She could break me with one choice.
And I’d still choose her.
Chapter Eleven
Briar
Rafe moves different in the morning.
His steps are careful in a way that makes my stomach twist. His shoulders stay tight when he reaches for the kettle. He forces slow inhales. The air around him feels uneven, unsettled.
I watch him from the bed, knees pulled to my chest, blanket around me. My body knows his moods the way it knows weather, and today something in him is shifting under the skin.
He doesn’t look at me at first. That’s how I know it’s bad this truth that he wants to tell me. I know he’s going to ask me to leave. And I’m not sure I’m going to survive it when he does.
He finally turns, and he tries to smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Morning, sweetheart.”
The words are soft. His tone is warm. But the warmth doesn’t go all the way through.
I slide off the bed and cross the room on bare feet, slow and careful. His jaw tightens a little when I get close. Not at me. At whatever he’s holding inside.
I place my hand on his wrist.
He freezes for a moment—then covers my hand with his, squeezing once. His touch trembles.
Something inside me stirs. Fear, but not of him. Fearforhim.
I pull the paper toward us and write:
YOU GOOD?
His mouth twitches, almost a flinch. “I’m fine.”
Lie. My body knows it. I touch his chest, placing my palm over his heart. His pulse jumps under my hand. He reaches up, catching my fingers, holding them for a moment longer than he means to.
“Just thinking,” he says softly.
Thinking doesn’t make him move this way. Thinking doesn’t make him hold his breath.
I reach for a cup, fill it with water from the basin, and offer it to him. A small thing. But I want to take care of him the way he takes care of me.
He stares at the cup for a long beat. Then he takes it, brushing my knuckles with his thumb. “Thank you.”
His voice is different. Lower. Rough at the edges.
He sets the cup down, then pulls me into him with both arms, burying his face in my hair. I hold onto him tightly, feeling the tremor in his chest.
He doesn’t usually cling. Not like this.
I wrap my arms around his waist, finding the place his heartbeat is strongest. His arms tighten more.
He whispers into my hair, “You’re alright. I’m here.”
But it sounds like he’s saying it to himself.
