Chapter 8
Charlie
I moved to the window, needing something to do with my hands before I said something I couldn’t take back. The glass rattled in the frame as the wind howled, pushing snow sideways, white and endless. The world outside had vanished, smothered under a storm that wasn’t letting up anytime soon.
I cursed under my breath.
She’d been working for hours, quiet now, settled near the fire with her notebook in her lap.
But sooner or later, she’d stand, wrap her scarf around her neck, and think she could make her way home.
And I knew what that would mean. A road swallowed by drifts, a car sliding where the ice ran thick, a girl too stubborn to admit the danger until it was too late.
The thought of it sat heavy in my chest.
But saying it out loud—that was something else. Admitting she couldn’t leave meant admitting she was here, really here, with me. That her presence had seeped into these walls in a way I’d spent years making sure no one’s ever could.
I told myself to let her figure it out. To let her look outside and see the storm for herself. To let her pack her things and try, and maybe when the cold wind slapped her in the face she’d finally understand this wasn’t a place for her.
But when I glanced back, I saw her.
Curled by the fire, her cheeks flushed from the heat, her eyes skimming over her notes with a concentration that looked too at ease in my house. She didn’t flinch at the storm’s roar, didn’t seem eager to escape. And something inside me broke before I could stop it.
“You’ll have to stay the night,” I muttered, the words rough, dragged out like they cut on the way up.
Her head snapped up, eyes wide, and then—God help me—they brightened. Relief, not fear, spilled across her face. She didn’t pale at the thought of being trapped with me. She didn’t edge back or stammer. She looked… glad.
It unsettled me more than the storm.
I turned away fast, jaw tight, pretending to busy myself with the fire. I could feel her gaze lingering, warm as the flames, and it gnawed at me. People weren’t supposed to look at me like that. Not anymore.
She should’ve been nervous. She should’ve seen the danger in being alone here, with a man the town called a monster. Instead, she smiled like I’d given her something worth keeping.
I clenched my fists at my sides, teeth grinding. I hadn’t meant it as kindness. It was practicality, that was all. The roads were shut, the storm too fierce. She’d stay because she had no choice, not because I wanted her here.
At least, that was what I kept telling myself.
But the truth pressed in, sharp and unrelenting: I didn’t want her walking out that door. Not into the storm. Not away from the firelight.
Not away from me.
I grabbed a lantern off the shelf and motioned for her to follow, my boots heavy on the old stairs. The house groaned the way it always did in storms, wind pressing against the walls like it wanted in. I hadn’t brought anyone upstairs in years—no reason to—but if she was staying; she needed a room.
The guestroom door stuck a little before it gave.
I pushed it open and stepped aside, letting her in first. The air smelled of dust and disuse.
The wallpaper had faded to a dull yellow, curling at the seams. The quilt on the bed was hand-stitched decades ago, colors muted, edges fraying. Cobwebs clung to the corners.
She turned slowly, taking it all in, and then that little smile tugged at her mouth. “This room belongs in a museum,” she teased, light dancing in her eyes.
I shot her a glare, sharp enough to cut. But she only laughed, soft and easy, the sound filling the hollow space like it had been waiting for it.
Something in my chest cracked.
It shouldn’t have mattered. It was just a laugh, just a girl poking fun at old wallpaper and a bedspread that had seen better days. But it hit me anyway. The sound wrapped around me, unsettling in its warmth, too close to something I hadn’t let myself feel in a long time.
Home.
That was what it felt like.
And it was dangerous, because home was something I’d lost forever. Burned out of me in the desert, betrayed out of me in the ashes of my old life. I’d sworn I didn’t need it anymore.
But standing there, with her laughter softening the dust and the cracks, it felt too much like having it again.
And that terrified me more than the storm outside.
The drawers in the old dresser stuck, but after a bit of tugging, I got one open.
Inside, folded in a half-forgotten pile, were clothes I hadn’t thought about in years—an old T-shirt, thin with age, and a pair of flannel pants soft from too many washes.
They’d once belonged to me, back when I cared enough to buy things that felt comfortable.
I held them for a long moment, fingers tightening on the fabric. It was stupid, really—just clothes. Nothing special. But the act of offering them felt… strange. Like baring something private I’d kept locked away with the rest of the past.
Finally, I turned and held them out, my voice coming out rougher than I meant. “They’ll do until morning.”
She blinked, then reached out and took them from my hands. The way she smiled—soft, grateful, as if I’d handed her something far more valuable than worn flannel and cotton—made my chest tighten.
“Thank you,” she said gently, like it was the kindest gesture in the world.
I shifted, uneasy, suddenly too aware of the space between us. It was easier when she bristled at my growls or ignored my glares. Easier when I could convince myself she was only here for the books, for the task. But gratitude? That was harder to fight.
I didn’t know what to do with it. Didn’t know how to stand there with her looking at me like that, as though kindness was still something I could give.
So I did what I always did. I turned away, jaw tight, muttered something about getting some sleep. But her smile lingered in my mind long after, unsettling and warm, like a match struck in the dark.
And I hated how much I wanted to hold on to it.
Back in the kitchen, I turned to the sink.
The mugs from the cocoa sat on the counter, faint rings of chalky brown clinging to the insides.
I filled the basin with hot water; the pipes groaning as steam rose up.
The warmth bit at my scarred hands, an ache that had never left me, but I welcomed it.
Pain was grounding. Familiar. Something I could hold onto.
I scrubbed at the mugs like they mattered, like scouring them clean could scour my head too.
The rhythm of it—the dip, the scrape, the rinse—was something to focus on.
Something to keep me from replaying the sound of her laughter, from remembering the way her eyes had lit when I’d told her she’d have to stay the night.
Routine, I told myself. Routine keeps you steady. Routine keeps her out of your mind.
I was halfway through drying the first mug when I felt it—the shift in the air, the weight of someone at the doorway.
I looked up.
And there she was.
The old T-shirt hung loose on her frame, the fabric brushing her thighs, the sleeves too long and grazing her hands.
The flannel pants sat low on her hips, too big but tied tight.
She shouldn’t have looked like anything special, dressed in clothes that belonged to another life.
But the sight of her in them hit me like a blow to the chest.
For a moment, I forgot to breathe.
She looked fragile. Not weak—there was steel in her, I’d seen it—but fragile like something rare, breakable if handled wrong. The firelight from the other room clung to her hair, softening her into something that didn’t belong in this broken house.
She looked holy.
Like an angel dropped into the ruins of my life.
I gripped the counter hard, my knuckles whitening, trying to force the air back into my lungs.
My head told me to look away, to ground myself in the sink, the dishes, the scars burning under the heat of the water.
To not want what wasn’t mine. To remember what her father had taken, what she reminded me of every time she smiled.
But my traitorous heart whispered louder.
Whispered that she looked like she belonged here.
Belonged in this kitchen, in this house that had known nothing but silence. Belonged in clothes that weren’t hers but somehow fit her better than they ever had me. Belonged in a space I had sworn would never feel like home again.
I shut my eyes tight, forcing a breath through clenched teeth, trying to hold myself together by sheer force of will.
Because if I let myself believe she belonged here, even for a heartbeat, I wasn’t sure I’d ever find the strength to let her go.
I stayed rooted at the sink, hands braced against the counter, willing myself to breathe steady. The storm rattled against the windows, a low moan threading through the old bones of the house. The rhythm of it should’ve grounded me. Should’ve reminded me why solitude was safer.
Then I heard her footsteps. Soft, careful.
I almost wanted to yell at her to hurry up and get on with it.
But I couldn't.
She stopped in the kitchen doorway, and when I looked up, she was closer than I expected.
My chest tightened. The shirt I’d given her hung loose on her frame, sleeves brushing her hands.
Firelight caught on her hair, making her look too much like something that didn’t belong in this wreck of a place.
“Thank you,” she said gently, her voice steady but low. “For letting me stay. For the fire. For everything.”
The words pierced deeper than they had any right to. Gratitude shouldn’t hurt. But it did—because I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had looked at me and spoken like that. Like I was worth thanking.
My throat went tight. I forced a grunt, some noncommittal sound, but before I could step back into my armor, she moved.
She rose onto her toes.
And pressed the lightest kiss to my cheek.
It was nothing. Barely a brush of lips against scarred skin. Innocent. Fleeting.
But it seared me like a brand.
I froze, every nerve set on fire, my pulse hammering loud in my ears. My hands curled tighter around the counter, as if I could anchor myself before the ground gave way.
She leaned back, smiling softly. Not teasing. Not pitying. Just warm. Then she whispered, “Goodnight,” and disappeared down the hall into the guestroom, her footsteps fading until the door closed behind her.
The silence that followed pressed in hard.
I stood there in the kitchen, too stunned to move, the storm raging outside while something far worse raged inside me.
Slowly, almost against my will, I lifted a hand to my cheek, to the spot where her lips had brushed.
The skin felt hot under my fingers, as if the mark she’d left was more than memory.
“She doesn’t know what she’s doing,” I muttered to the empty room, the words gruff, an attempt at reason.
But the lie rang hollow.
Because in my chest, deep where the scars still ached, my carefully guarded foundations trembled. The walls I’d built for years shook under the weight of that kiss.
And the worst of it—the part that unsettled me most—was the traitorous thought whispering back.
I wished she did.