Chapter 9
Belle
I woke to a room washed in pale gold, the winter sun pushing through the frosted windows. For a long moment, I didn’t move. I just lay there, blinking up at the faded wallpaper, trying to believe where I was.
Charlie Archer’s guestroom.
Snowed in after the storm, wrapped in a quilt that smelled faintly of cedar and dust, wearing an old T-shirt and flannel pants that once belonged to him.
The absurdity of it made me laugh softly into the stillness. A week ago, I never would’ve imagined this. And yet here I was, tucked into the heart of his house, hearing the groan of pipes and the distant pop of the fire downstairs.
And then the memory came back, warm and sharp all at once: me standing in the kitchen, whispering goodnight, rising onto my toes to press a kiss to his scarred cheek.
My stomach fluttered just thinking about it.
I couldn’t stop the smile that spread across my face, small but unstoppable.
It had been innocent, fleeting, but it had meant something to me—maybe more than I dared admit.
The way he froze, the way the air had shifted between us… it replayed in my mind like a secret.
I rolled over, reaching for my bag where I’d left it on the chair, and dug out my phone. The screen lit up, and I breathed out a sigh of relief when I saw the signal bars. Spotty, but there. Enough.
My fingers flew over the screen.
Safe at Mr. Archer’s place. Don’t worry.
I hesitated a moment before hitting send, half-worried Mom would panic or read into it. But I pressed it anyway. The message zipped away, and I set the phone back on the quilt, exhaling.
I glanced around the room again, really looking this time.
The wallpaper was faded, curling at the edges, and dust clung in the corners.
The handmade quilt was frayed, the stitches uneven, but sturdy.
Nothing about it was polished, and yet… it felt safe.
Like the room had been waiting, unused, until now.
I tugged the T-shirt closer around me; the hem brushing my thighs, sleeves still too long for my hands. It felt strange, wearing something that belonged to him, but comforting too—like I’d slipped into part of his story without asking.
My heart beat faster at the thought of seeing him again downstairs, of what his face might look like in the morning light instead of firelight. Would he still glare, still keep his distance? Or would I catch another flicker of the man behind the walls?
Either way, I knew one thing for certain: I wasn’t afraid of him. Not even a little.
And as sunlight spilled brighter across the floor, I whispered into the quiet, “Good morning, Mr. Archer,” just to practice the words, already smiling at the thought of saying them aloud.
I decided I wasn’t just going to drift downstairs, murmur good morning, and hide behind my mug. After everything—the fire, the storm, the guestroom, his shirt—I needed to do something more. Something to thank him.
So I padded into the kitchen, still barefoot, the hem of the borrowed flannel pants brushing my ankles. The house creaked with the old bones of winter, but I didn’t mind. I pulled open cupboards and rummaged through drawers, humming softly as I searched.
Eggs. A little dusty, but not cracked. Flour in a canister, heavy when I lifted it. Half a bag of sugar shoved in the back. And when I checked the freezer, wrapped in old butcher paper, I found what looked suspiciously like bacon. Probably years old, but I decided to risk it.
It wasn’t much, but I could work with it.
I set everything on the counter, tying my hair back with a spare elastic I found in my pocket, and got to work.
Mixing, whisking, cracking eggs into a bowl.
The hiss of the bacon in the skillet was satisfying, the kind of sound that made a house feel alive.
The scent filled the air—salty, warm, familiar—and I hummed louder, letting the tune carry down the hallway.
The kitchen didn’t feel so empty with the sound of cooking in it. It felt… normal. Like a Sunday morning at home, like family gathered at a table. Like something I hadn’t realized I missed until I stood here, filling his house with the scent of frying bacon and the sound of my voice.
I plated the eggs, slid the bacon onto a dish, and pulled warm biscuits from the oven—lopsided, sure, but golden. My cheeks flushed with a pride I couldn’t quite hide.
Heavy footsteps, the creak of the floorboards, the shift of weight as he lingered in the doorway. I glanced up, and there he was, broad-shouldered and silent, eyes flicking from the stove to me like he wasn’t quite sure what he’d walked into.
“Morning,” I said brightly, my smile widening as I set two plates on the counter. “I figured we could use something real after last night’s gourmet cocoa.”
For a beat, he just stared, his expression unreadable. I felt my stomach flip nervously, but I pushed past it, nudging a plate toward him. Steam curled between us, carrying the scent of eggs and bacon, and I tried to pretend my heart wasn’t pounding at the thought of what he might say.
I picked up a fork, my voice lighter than I felt. “Don’t worry—I tested the bacon. It’s safe.”
The pride I’d felt plating up the eggs and bacon faltered the instant I caught the look on his face. Instead of surprise, or even the smallest flicker of gratitude, his features hardened like stone.
“Why’d you tell your mom you were here?” His voice was rough, sharp enough to sting.
I blinked at him, fork halfway to my mouth. “What?”
His eyes narrowed, dark and accusing. “Your mother. You texted her, didn’t you? Told her where you were?”
Heat crept into my cheeks. “Of course I did. She’d worry otherwise. I didn’t think—”
“You didn’t think,” he snapped, the words cutting like a lash. “Now the whole damn town will know by sundown.”
I froze, fork clattering softly against the plate. My heart sank, a mix of confusion and hurt tightening my chest. “I… I didn’t mean—”
He cut me off again, pacing a step back like the walls were closing in. “They’ll be talking already. Whispering. Can’t keep their noses out of anything.” His tone was bitter, laced with old anger I didn’t understand.
I pressed my lips together, struggling to find the right words. “I wasn’t trying to make trouble,” I said softly, more earnest than defensive. “I just wanted her not to worry. That’s all.”
He let out a low growl, not quite at me but at the world, at the invisible crowd he seemed convinced was watching. I wrapped my hands around my mug, wishing the warmth could shield me from the tension hanging thick in the air.
I hadn’t come here to hurt him, or to spread gossip, or to dig up whatever ghosts he was hiding. I’d only meant well.
But standing there under the weight of his suspicion, I realized how far apart our worlds really were—his, shadowed and guarded, mine, hopeful and open. And no matter how much I wanted to reach him, it wouldn’t be simple.
"Little fool," he growled. "You don't realize what you've done."
Something in me snapped. I wasn’t going to sit there, shrinking under his glare, as if I’d done something wrong just by caring.
“I’m not ashamed of being here,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. I met his eyes head-on, refusing to look away. “Why should I be? You’re not the monster they think you are.”
For a second, just a flicker, something in his face shifted—uncertainty, maybe even pain. But it hardened again just as quickly.
“You don’t know what I am.” His growl rumbled low, final, like he was daring me to stop pressing.
The words stung more than I wanted to admit.
But instead of retreating, heat flared in my chest, frustration rising like a tide.
“Then tell me,” I fired back. “Because all I’ve seen is a man with a library full of memories, a man who let me stay safe during a storm, a man who—” My voice broke off, the memory of last night’s kiss burning bright in my mind.
“You act like kindness is some kind of trick. It isn’t. ”
His jaw tightened, eyes shadowed, as if my words were a threat he couldn’t let in.
I shook my head, exasperated. “You keep pushing me away like it’ll prove you right, but it doesn’t. It just proves you’re scared.”
The silence between us crackled. Sparks leapt in the space where my frustration collided with his self-loathing, each of us refusing to yield.
For me, it wasn’t about winning. It was about refusing to let him bury himself in the lies the town had written for him.
For him, I could see it—fear of exposure, fear of me seeing too much.
And yet, standing in that kitchen with the smell of bacon still in the air, I couldn’t bring myself to back down. Not when I knew he was wrong.
The words between us tangled into something hotter than anger. His voice, low and sharp, clashed with mine until neither of us seemed willing to back down. I gripped the counter hard, knuckles pale, refusing to be the one to retreat.
He stood across from me, fists clenched tight at his sides, the lines of his scarred face taut with a battle I couldn’t see. Every breath seemed to thicken the air between us until it felt like the kitchen itself might split from the tension.
“Why do you keep doing this?” I demanded, my voice trembling but fierce. “Why do you fight so hard to make me believe the worst of you?”
His jaw worked, words on the edge but unspoken. His eyes burned into mine, defiance and fear tangled in equal measure.
And then something shifted.
The space between us collapsed as we stepped closer, neither of us meaning to, yet both of us unable to stop. My heart pounded so hard it was all I could hear. His eyes locked on mine, sharp and haunted, before dropping—slowly, inexorably—to my mouth.
My breath caught.
The world seemed to narrow to that single charged second, his shadow and mine nearly touching, the smell of smoke and firewood clinging to him, the flicker of possibility hanging in the air. He looked like a man about to leap, and I swore if he did, I wouldn’t stop him.
For one heartbeat, we hovered there—balanced on the knife’s edge of something dangerous, something undeniable.
And then he jerked back as if burned.
“I need air,” he muttered, his voice harsh, unfinished, before I could say a word. He snatched his jacket from the back of a chair and shoved it on, movements too sharp, too quick. The door slammed behind him a moment later, leaving the kitchen ringing with silence.
Through the frosted window I glimpsed him outside, shoulders hunched against the cold, hands shaking as he lit a cigarette.
Smoke curled around him like ghosts, dissipating into the winter wind.
I couldn’t hear the words, but I could see the way his mouth moved—cursing himself, maybe cursing me, maybe both.
Inside, I exhaled for the first time since his gaze had fallen to my lips. My hands loosened from the counter, palms tingling, chest aching. I pressed my fingers to my mouth, as though to steady the trembling there.
The sting of rejection cut sharp, but it wasn’t the whole truth. I knew what I’d seen. What I’d felt.
He wanted it too.
That thought, fragile and terrifying, took root inside me as I steadied my breath. He could run, he could bury himself in smoke and snow, but the moment had already happened. We had stood at the edge together. And no matter how far he tried to push me, I wasn’t blind to the truth.
He wanted me.
And for reasons I couldn’t quite name, I wanted him all the more for trying so hard to deny it.