I should argue further. Should insist. Yet when I turn back the quilt, my hands tremble more from anticipation than reluctance. He eases onto one side of the bed, leaving room—leaving choice.
I slip beneath the covers, careful to keep to my side, though the warmth of him reaches across the small divide. In the hush of the cottage, with only the night’s whispers and the sound of him beside me, my solitude—so constant until now—feels suddenly fragile. The rest my body so desperately needs, the closeness it now aches for, feels a quiet betrayal of the solitude I’ve long clung to. Yet the memory of waking in his arms—of that unguarded peace—lingers, unraveling something I had thought immovable.
At first I lie stiff, the quilt serving as my anchor, as if it alone could shield me from his nearness. Every sound sharpens: the draw of his breath, the rasp of fabric as he shifts, the groan of the mattress beneath him. I tell myself stillness will keep me safe, that if I pretend at sleep, I might fool even my own heart.
But I cannot ignore him. His heat seeps across the divide, and my body betrays me. My breath falls into rhythm with his, my pulse quickening to match the rise and fall of his chest.
Discomfort thins to longing, longing to surrender. I let the quilt slip from my grip, turning just slightly—enough to sense him nearer. I do not reach, yet it feels as if the very air bends between us, closing the distance I have fought to keep.
There, in the depth of night, I understand: solitude is not only escape but also exile.
And tonight, it has already been undone.
Chapter Seven
The hazy gold of dawn seeps through the window as the songbirds rouse me from sleep. I stretch long across the bed, a heavy stillness in my bones from a depth of rest that feels new to me. A dazed smile touches my lips as my eyes draw open.
My palm presses into linen. The bed is empty. The sunken imprint of his form tells me it was no dream, but his absence stirs something I do not like—quieter than panic, yet no less sharp.
I rise, and the cottage seems to expand without him—too large, too hollow.
Ease returns the moment I see him by the fire, coaxing it to life. Flame and morning light gild him in living gold. His eyes gleam, his smile widening when he turns.
“I didn’t want to wake you. You seemed so peaceful.”
Only then do I realize how tightly my muscles have been wound in the moments of his absence. How can I fear losing someone who only just entered my life so little ago?
Words fail me—pleasantries too thin, anything deeper lodged in my throat. Each step toward him wakes some part of me until I stop just shy of the hearth. Tightness coils in my chest as my heart trips over itself. It’s been years since I’ve felt nervous around anyone, and this—this is nothing like the old kind. Not the giddy sweetness of a girl pining after a boy, and not the familiar weight of standing apart from everyone else.
I don’t merely want him near.
Something in me turns toward him the way birds turn toward the south wind—trusting a pull they cannot name, following it across distances that should daunt them. And when he’s close, the world feels… aligned. As if I’ve been drifting out of true, and he is the thing that steadies me.
“And you? Did you sleep well?” I ask, reaching for the bucket in feigned casualness.
I nearly drop it when his smile breaks wider, alive. “Quite well—for a man so near the grave only days ago.” A low chuckle rumbles, shifting the air between us.
I cling to the bucket, a barrier between us and this storm of emotions—peaceful and alive, yet charged. I am at odds with myself and comforted, all at once.
“I’ll fetch water, then we can eat.” Even the simplest acts with him feel like home—familiar, though I have never known it before.
Outside, the air is sweet. Dew jewels the grasses, life unfurling with spring. I feel that promise with more hope than I’ve dared in years.
The day carries that same sweetness. Sitting across from him, we are no longer two strangers over porridge. Every laugh, every glance roots itself in me like the shoots breaking soil beyond my door, eager to bloom.
Even the mundane feels altered—each task in quiet harmony beside his gravity. I can’t even explain it. Nearness of others always carried an invisible weight, the burden of obligation to play whatever role may make me more palatable. I’ve not felt that once with him. I mask my fervent mix of emotions with busywork, but somehow I feel more myself even as he watches me so intently.
It is not yet midday when I pause, startled at how much I have done and with such an easy flow.
Opening a window, I bask in the smells of early spring carried on the breeze, so fresh and full of promise. I breathe it in, scent and hope alike.
“You seem as ready for that ride as Bracken must be.” The gravel inhis voice grounds me, steady as stone, as if he could hold me with words alone.
The saddle waits near the door, rich leather worn and weathered, carved with years of care. Stiff though I still am, I will not let him bear it nor tack the horse for me. Stubbornness carries me through the effort until the moment his hand steadies me as I mount.
“Rest while I’m away? Please? I’ll ride more easily knowing you’re recovering safely.”
His voice is as steady as his hand. “Of course, little flame.”
