22. Asher
The cabin was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt like it could stretch forever.
Outside, the wind rustled through the trees, and the faint chirping of crickets filtered through the open windows.
It was peaceful, serene even, but the stillness between Gael and me wasn’t. It had been months since we’d come here, months of uneasy coexistence.
At first, it was all I could do to hold onto the anger, to remind myself of what he’d done. How he’d taken away my choice, my life, and left me with a reality I hadn’t asked for.
But somewhere along the way, the edges of that anger had started to blur.
It was in the little things.
Like how he always made sure there was blood on hand for me, even when he went hungry.
Or how he’d fixed the porch railing after I’d leaned on it too hard and nearly fell through. How he gave me space when I needed it but was always there when I didn’t.
I didn’t even know when it happened, but one day I realized I’d forgotten why I was so angry at him in the first place.
The frustration, the resentment was still there, but it felt muted, almost distant. What replaced it was something I didn’t want to name. Something softer, more terrifying.
I watched him from across the room now, his figure outlined by the soft glow of the firelight.
He was sitting on the couch, his head bowed as he flipped through an old book he’d found in town.
His brow furrowed in concentration, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips when he came across something amusing.
I couldn’t look away.
How did he do it? How did he carry so much weight on his shoulders and still find a way to smile?
How did he make the smallest things, like sitting by the fire or patching up the cabin walls, feel like something monumental?
The tension between us lingered, unspoken but heavy.
I wanted to break it, to say something that would bridge the gap, but every time I opened my mouth, the words got caught in my throat.
Until tonight.
I stood, my heart pounding as I crossed the room. Gael didn’t look up, too engrossed in whatever he was reading. I hesitated for a moment, then cleared my throat.
He glanced up, his expression cautious. “What’s up?”
“Can I...?” I gestured to the spot on the couch beside him.
His eyes softened, and he shifted to make room. “Of course.”
I sat down, closer than I usually did. The fire crackled, filling the silence, and for a moment, I didn’t know where to start.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said finally, my voice low.
He closed the book, his full attention on me now.
“About what?” Gael asked.
“About us. About everything.”
His expression tightened, but he didn’t say anything, waiting for me to continue.
“When we first came here,” I began, “I thought I’d never be able to forgive you. I was so angry, so... lost. And I blamed you for all of it.”
“I know,” he said softly.
“But somewhere along the way, I started to realize that maybe it wasn’t just about what you did. Maybe I was angry because I didn’t know how to deal with what I’d lost.” I paused, my throat tightening. “And the truth is, I don’t think I’ve ever really thanked you.”
His eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across his face. “Thanked me?”
“For saving my life. For being here, even when I pushed you away. For not giving up on me.”
“Asher,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, “you don’t have to?—”
“I do,” I interrupted, my gaze meeting his. “Because I’ve been holding onto this anger for so long, and I think I’ve been using it as an excuse. An excuse to keep you at a distance. But I don’t want to do that anymore.”
He stared at me, his jaw working as if he was trying to find the right words.
“You don’t have to forgive me,” he said finally. “I don’t expect you to. I just want you to know that everything I’ve done, I did because I couldn’t imagine a world without you in it.”
His words hit me like a punch to the chest. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to hear them until now.
“I know,” I whispered. “And maybe I’m not there yet, but I think... I think I’m starting to understand.”
The room seemed to shrink, the space between us narrowing as the firelight cast shadows on his face. His eyes searched mine, and for a moment, it felt like time had stopped.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admitted, my voice trembling. “But I want to try.”
“We can try together,” he said.
The air between us crackled with something electric, something inevitable. I leaned in before I could second-guess myself, my heart hammering in my chest.
When our lips met, it was like the world fell away.
The kiss was tentative at first, a question more than an answer, but it deepened quickly, a surge of emotion I couldn’t contain.
His hands came up to cup my face, and I felt his hesitation, his fear that this might be too much, too soon. But I pressed closer, pouring everything I couldn’t say into the kiss.
We finally pulled apart, our foreheads resting against each other.
“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” I admitted, a small smile tugging at my lips.
“Yeah?” His voice was a mix of wonder and disbelief.
“Yeah,” I admitted.
He chuckled softly. “Well, I’m glad you did.”
For the first time in months, the tension between us felt like it had eased, replaced by something fragile but full of promise.
As we sat there, the fire crackling softly in the background, I allowed myself to hope.
Maybe we weren’t there yet, but we were closer. And for the first time, that felt like enough.
THE END