Chapter 7 #4
Curiosity mingled with anticipation, warmth blended with uncertainty, while a strange longing threaded through it all, impossible to separate from the rest. The result overflowed within me until I could scarcely tell where one feeling ended and another began.
“Are you alright, Cecelia?” The concern in Gabe’s voice nearly undid me. I kept my back turned towards him, clinging to the thin protection it offered.
“I’m fine.” The words emerged more stiffly than intended, trembling slightly despite my efforts to remain composed. First the laughter, then the lingering touch, now whatever this was.
What was happening to me?
I closed my eyes and drew several slow breaths, focusing on the scent of rain and pine while I attempted to gather the scattered fragments of myself back into some semblance of order. When I finally felt capable of facing him again, I turned around.
Gabe was watching me carefully, posture tense, as though he wanted to step closer and check on me, but was deliberately restraining himself. The realization warmed me more than it should have.
“I’m fine,” I repeated. This time the words sounded more convincing. Whether I actually believed them was another matter entirely.
His gaze lingered upon me for another moment before he slowly nodded.
He didn’t question me further, much to my relief.
Yet the concern remained visible in his dark eyes, softening his usually guarded expression.
Oddly enough, his quiet presence soothed me…
which was rather unfortunate considering he was also the source of my distress.
Eventually his attention shifted towards the laden basket resting between us. “Do we have enough berries?” he asked.
I followed his gaze, grateful for the return to a practical subject. “Yes,” I said, perhaps a little too quickly. “More than enough.”
Yet despite my words, I reached towards a nearby cluster, as though picking just one more would allow me to linger in this moment a little longer. In my distraction, a thorn caught my fingertip.
I felt a brief prick and let out a small gasp, but otherwise didn’t react. A bead of crimson welled against my skin. I watched it with detached fascination.
Gabe reacted far more strongly. He was suddenly beside me and gently caught my hand. His thumb carefully turned my hand towards the light. Blood slipped down my finger.
His gaze slowly lifted to my indifferent expression. “Doesn’t that hurt?”
The worry in his expression startled me. I considered the question as I looked down at my hand. The wound seemed rather minor, nothing to get upset over. “Is it supposed to?”
His gaze snapped upward. Something in his expression had changed.
Concern remained, but now something deeper lingered beneath it—confusion if I had to guess, almost alarm. As though my answer disturbed him far more than the injury itself.
Slowly he released my hand, yet the troubled look never fully left his face, making me wonder if he was beginning to notice my lack of emotion wasn’t merely unusual. Something was wrong with me.
The realization should have unsettled me.
Instead I found myself oddly touched that he cared enough to notice…
but that sensation faded almost as soon as I felt it, my heart finally exhausted from all the feelings this outing had caused, returning me to my previous peaceful numbness.
Yet despite my attempts to ignore it, some trace of awareness remained, like a warm current flowing beneath the surface of my quiet, practical existence.
When we finally prepared to leave, Gabe insisted upon carrying the berry basket.
Before departing the hollow, he paused beside a nearby oak and carefully plucked a single silver-green leaf.
He pressed it between the pages of his journal with familiar care before tucking his journal back into his cloak, preserving the moment…
just as I preserved places within my maps.
The warmth that had lingered from our shared laughter and touch of our hands deepened at the thought that he wanted to remember this outing…or perhaps that was my own secret wish I was afraid to admit, even to myself.
Dusk painted the forest in shades of gold and lavender as we began the journey home. The return felt both quieter than before, and yet the sort of silence that no longer felt empty, filled with a conversation we didn’t need to speak aloud.
Several times our shoulders brushed, but neither of us moved away. When the trail narrowed, we walked closer together beneath the shelter of our cloaks. More than once I caught him looking at me when he thought I wasn’t watching. Each time my heart betrayed me with another rapid flutter.
For the first time since coming to live with Grandmother, I found myself dreading the sight of the bakery appearing through the trees.
Because once we arrived, the journey would end.
When it eventually did and I found myself alone, I would unroll my map of the hidden hollow and carefully mark every detail.
The berry patch, the twin oaks, the winding path through the mist.
And perhaps I would add one final notation beside the clearing—not a landmark or a geographical observation, but just a single line: the place where I laughed again.