Chapter 4
Chapter four
Holly
When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was the light. Soft and gray, sneaking through the curtains. The kind of morning light that made everything look gentler than it really was. The second thing I noticed was the weight across my legs was warm, heavy, and breathing.
Biscuit.
He was sprawled on the bed, chin resting on my ankle like he was guarding it. His fur was warm and smelled faintly like the house—pine and soap. My fingers were tangled in his ruff, even though I didn’t remember falling asleep that way.
Then I realized what I did remember.
The nightmare. The cellar. The latch slamming shut. My own stupid crying.
And Blake.
My whole body went hot and cold all at once. I sat up too fast, the blanket sliding off my shoulders. My brain filled with the pieces of last night—the way I’d cried, the way he’d held me. I’d pressed my face against his chest like a child.
I buried my face in my hands and wanted to disappear.
The floor creaked in the hallway. Biscuit’s ears twitched before I even heard his voice.
“You awake?” Blake’s voice was rough, like gravel and morning coffee.
I managed a small “Yeah.” It came out more like a squeak.
He appeared in the doorway, pushing the door wide a second later, already dressed for work—jeans, boots, flannel rolled up at the sleeves.
His hair was damp from the shower. There was a travel mug in one hand, keys in the other.
He looked like a man who had a plan for the day, not like someone who’d spent half the night holding a crying mess together.
“You sleep at all after…?” He stopped himself before finishing the sentence.
“Yes, thank you,” I whispered.
He just nodded once, like that was fine, and glanced down at Biscuit. "Keep watch, buddy." Biscuit thumped his tail like he’d understood the assignment.
“Good boy,” Blake said, quiet but approving.
He turned his gaze back to me. “You should eat something. There’s oatmeal on the stove. I didn’t add sugar yet. I’ve also got plenty of bread for toast, eggs, coffee, juice. Biscuits and waffles in the freezer.” He winced. “Not homemade like my mom would make.”
My mother would never dream of so much as operating the microwave if she could help it. “I can—” My voice caught. I cleared it. “I can make breakfast for you. I don’t mind.”
That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth, almost a smile but not quite. “You’re my guest, Holly. Not my cook.”
I ducked my head. “Sorry. I just…thought it’d be polite.”
“Polite’s overrated.” He said it simply, no bite in it, just matter-of-fact. Then, softer, “You don’t owe me anything.”
My throat tightened. I didn’t know what to do with words like that.
He shifted his weight like he was uncomfortable too.
“I’ve got a job site to check in on this morning, pay to do before the crew finishes for the holidays in a couple of days, but I can do it here.
Shouldn’t be gone long. You’ll be fine here with Biscuit.
There’s food, coffee, TV if you want it. I'll lock the door after I go.”
“I’ll be good,” I said quickly. Too quickly.
He gave me a long look—the kind that saw through words. “You don’t have to be good, Holly. Just safe.” The words landed deep, right in the center of me. Safe. I liked the way it sounded in his voice.
He rubbed a hand over Biscuit’s head, then nodded toward me. “You can let him out back when he needs it. He’ll show you how. I’ll be back before noon.”
I wanted to say thank you, but my throat didn’t cooperate. I wanted to say sorry again, too, but that didn’t seem right either. So I just nodded, hands buried in the sleeves of his flannel. He was trusting a stranger he’d just met to stay in his house.
He paused in the doorway. “You’ll be all right?”
I nodded again. “Yes, sir.”
The word slipped out before I could stop it. Sir. Small, instinctive, automatic. My heart stuttered.
If he noticed, he didn’t react. Just tipped his head slightly, that steady look back in his eyes. “Good,” he said finally.
When he was gone, the house went quiet except for Biscuit’s sigh. I sat there a long time, staring at the mug on the nightstand and the sunlight creeping up the wall.
I should’ve felt ashamed. I did, a little. But mostly, I felt warm. No one had ever told me to be safe. I wasn’t sure I knew how to be safe, but maybe this was where I’d start learning.
After the front door closed and the sound of Blake’s truck faded down the road, the house went still. Not the kind of silence that pressed down on you, but the kind that breathed. The kind you could almost trust.
Biscuit padded back into the kitchen, toenails clicking softly on the wood. I followed. He looked at me, then at the back door, tail swishing once like he already knew what came next.
“All right,” I said quietly. My voice sounded too loud in the empty house. “Let’s get you outside.”
He trotted out into the snow-dusted yard, did his business, and came straight back in.
I wiped his paws with the towel hanging near the door and hung it back exactly the way I’d found it.
I didn’t know what to do with myself after that.
I knew I should…run, but where to? There was nowhere Vincent couldn’t find me.
The kitchen was still warm from breakfast. The oatmeal pot sat keeping warm and I wrinkled my nose.
No amount of sugar could make that nasty stuff edible, but I was hungry and popped a couple of slices of bread in the toaster.
Everything about Blake’s house was orderly, like he didn’t know how to rest unless the world around him was straightened out.I liked that.
It made me feel safe. My parents house had stuff littering every surface.
Sometimes I would get into trouble for not tidying up, sometimes I would get shouted at for touching things that weren’t mine. Trouble either way.
My fingers drifted along the edge of the counter. Smooth wood, faintly warm from the morning sun. My hand brushed against a jar of flour, and the smallest spark went through me — the good kind. A quiet hum of wanting.
I used to love baking. When Nana was alive. Before everything. Before “helping” turned into “you’ll just make a mess.” Before I learned that even small joys could get you punished.
I looked toward the door, half expecting Blake to come back in, catch me reaching for the flour, and tell me no. But all I heard was Biscuit padding around the living room, sighing contentedly as he curled up near the fire.
No one was here to stop me.
My heart thudded a little faster. I opened the cupboard and found sugar, baking soda, vanilla—neat rows, all labeled. Whoever stocked this kitchen didn’t do anything halfway. There was even a jar of chocolate chips.
“Just a few,” I murmured, like I was confessing something.
It felt wrong and wonderful all at once.
The measuring cups clinked softly against the bowl. I tried to be quiet, tried not to make a mess, but soon there was flour on the counter, on my hands, even a little dusting my cheek. Biscuit lifted his head once to check on me, then went back to his nap.I couldn’t stop smiling.
I stirred the dough with a wooden spoon, the scent of butter and sugar rising like something holy. It didn’t matter if the cookies turned out perfect, I just needed to remember what it felt like to make something that didn’t hurt.
When I slid the tray into the oven, my chest felt warm in a way that had nothing to do with the heat.
I was still licking chocolate off my thumb when the sound of the front door opening made me jump, and I froze. The spoon slipped from my hand and hit the counter with a clatter. My stomach dropped straight through the floor.
Biscuit bounded up, tail wagging, running straight for the sound. I couldn’t move. I was still standing there in one of Blake’s shirts. The sleeves covered my hands. The hem nearly reached my thighs.
The boots by the door thumped once, then Blake’s voice: “Smells like a bakery exploded in here.”
I turned around, heart pounding. “I’m sorry!” The words flew out too fast. “I— I was just— I didn’t mean—”
He stopped in the doorway, eyes sweeping the room. The counter was dusted white, a smear of dough streaked across my wrist. The oven light glowed. Biscuit wagged his tail like he’d been helping.
Blake blinked once, then huffed out something that might have been a laugh. “Jesus, Holly. I was gone two hours.”
“I’ll clean it up,” I blurted. “I promise. I’ll make it like it never—”
“Hey.” His voice wasn’t sharp, but it cut through my panic all the same. He stepped closer, hands loose at his sides. “You’re not in trouble.”
I blinked at him. “I’m not?”
“Do I look mad?”
I looked. Really looked. His mouth was set in a straight line, but his eyes weren’t cold. If anything, they looked a little tired and…soft.
“I thought you’d be angry. I used your flour.”
“It’s flour, Holly. Not gold dust.” His tone was dry, but not unkind. “What were you making?”
“Cookies,” I admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Chocolate chip.”
He sniffed the air, then nodded toward the oven. “They smell pretty good. You bake often?”
“No,” I said quickly. Then quieter: “I used to. But I wasn’t supposed to.”
He frowned, the kind of frown that came from wanting to ask questions but knowing not to. “Well, you’re supposed to here. You can bake whatever you want.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
My throat felt tight again, but this time it wasn’t fear.
It was something gentler. The timer beeped, and I startled so hard Biscuit barked.
Blake reached past me, calm and steady, and opened the oven door.
The smell of warm sugar and butter filled the room.
He set the tray on the counter. “They look perfect.”
I stared at them, steam curling off the top. “You really think so?”
“Yeah,” he said. “And I don’t say that unless I mean it.”
He grabbed a cookie, broke it in half, wrapped the other in a napkin so I wouldn’t burn my fingers and handed me the bigger piece. I took it with both hands, careful not to drop it. The chocolate was melted, and delicious.
“Don’t burn yourself,” he muttered automatically.
“I won’t.” I blew on it first, small and deliberate, like a child being careful with something precious. He noticed, I think, because his shoulders eased.
The first bite was sweet and soft and almost too much. I swallowed hard, blinked fast. “I forgot how much I love doing this,” I whispered.
“Then don’t forget again.”
Simple words. But they lodged somewhere deep inside me. I smiled without meaning to. Biscuit nudged my leg for a bite, and Blake shook his head. “You feed him one of those, he’ll never eat dog food again.”
I laughed—a real one this time—and it startled me. It sounded lighter than I remembered.
Blake turned away to rinse his hands, and I caught the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth while I sneaked Biscuit a piece of cookie. Of course, Biscuit ruined it by eating it unnecessarily noisily.
Blake didn’t say anything else, but I didn’t need him to.He’d already said the thing that mattered most —I could bake whatever I wanted.
And for the first time in a very long time, I believed him.