Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Daphne
Sleep came in fragments…restless stretches of dreams woven with grey eyes and warm kitchens, the scent of rosemary and the echo of laughter I hadn't known I was capable of.
Each time I surfaced into wakefulness, the cabin felt different.
Not lonely, exactly, but waiting. Like the walls themselves were holding their breath, anticipating something I couldn't name.
When morning finally arrived, pale gold light filtering through my curtains, I lay still for a long moment and let myself remember.
The dinner. The way Garrett had watched me with quiet understanding.
Oliver's steady presence, anchoring the room.
Micah's sharp observations that somehow never cut.
Levi with his easy grin, his focaccia, and the text message that still glowed on my phone like a small miracle.
Tonight was really nice. Thank you for trusting us enough to come. Sleep well, Daphne.
I'd read it six times before falling asleep. Memorized the shape of each word, the simple sincerity behind them. And my reply—Thank you for making me feel welcome. And for the focaccia—it was incredible. Goodnight, Levi—felt like a door I'd opened without meaning to.
Maybe without wanting to close it again.
The thought should have terrified me. Instead, it settled into my chest like something warm and fragile, a seed planted in soil I'd thought was barren.
I went through my morning routine on autopilot—shower, dress, coffee—but everything felt slightly off-kilter, tilted toward some new axis I couldn't quite identify.
The face in my bathroom mirror looked the same as alway calico hair still damp, green eyes shadowed from restless sleep.
Yet something underneath had shifted, some wall had cracked, and light was seeping through.
The garden called me outside, as it always did.
The late morning sun was gentle, filtered through high clouds that promised warmth without the brutal heat of full summer.
I knelt in the dirt between rows of tomatoes, my hands finding their familiar rhythm—pull, check, nurture, move on.
The plants didn't care about my confusion.
They just needed water and attention and time, and in return, they gave me something to show for my efforts. Something real and tangible and mine.
I was elbow-deep in mulch, spreading it around the base of my pepper plants, when I heard the truck.
My heart seized—a visceral, instinctive response that sent me scrambling to my feet, soil cascading from my gloves. Trinity. The thought sliced through me like ice water.She's finally decided to come to my home, confront me in my sanctuary, she'd—
The truck that rounded the bend wasn't sleek or expensive or anything Trinity would be caught dead driving. It was a deep green Ford, practical and dust-covered, and behind the wheel sat a broad-shouldered figure with tousled hair and a smile I could see even from fifty feet away.
Levi.
The relief that washed through me was immediate and overwhelming, followed quickly by something else—something warmer, more complicated.
He pulled up near my gate and cut the engine, and I watched him climb out with that easy grace, a paper bag clutched in one hand.
He wore a soft blue shirt today, the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms dusted with what looked like flour.
His jeans were worn at the knees, his boots scuffed from actual use, and when he spotted me standing among my vegetables like some dirt-covered garden spirit, his face lit up.
"Hey, neighbor," he called, his voice carrying across the morning air. "I brought an offering. Or just... bread. Bread I made too much of and figured you might want."
I stood there, frozen between instinct and desire, acutely aware of my current state—dirt smudged on my cheek, hair escaping its messy braid, old jeans with holes in both knees. This wasn't how you were supposed to look when a man showed up at your door. This wasn't—
But Levi was already walking toward me, and his eyes weren't judging. They were warm. Appreciative, even, as they swept over my disheveled appearance.
"You've been working," he observed, stopping at a respectful distance. "The garden looks incredible, by the way. Even better up close than from the road."
"It's... thank you." I pulled off my gloves, tucking them into my back pocket, suddenly self-conscious about the dirt under my nails. "I wasn't expecting company."
"I know. I probably should have called first." He held up the paper bag, and the aroma that wafted from it made my stomach clench with sudden hunger.
Warm bread, yeasty and perfect, with an undertone of something sweet—cinnamon, maybe, or brown sugar.
"But I was up early baking, and I kept thinking about you out here alone, and I figured.
.. what's the worst that could happen? You tell me to leave, I eat all this bread myself, everybody wins. "
A laugh escaped me—unexpected, rusty from disuse. "That doesn't sound like everybody winning."
"It does if you've tasted my bread." His grin was infectious, and I felt my shoulders relaxing despite myself. "Sourdough. Fresh from the oven about an hour ago. Still warm if you want to find out what you'd be missing."
I should say no. I should thank him politely, take the bread, send him on his way. That's what the old Daphne would do—the Daphne who had survived five years alone by keeping everyone at arm's length, who had convinced herself that solitude was the same as safety.
But that Daphne hadn't sat at a table surrounded by warmth and laughter and the intoxicating feeling of belonging. That Daphne hadn't felt the crack in her walls or seen the light seeping through.
"Would you like some coffee?" The words came out before I could stop them, and I watched Levi's expression shift from hopeful to genuinely happy—a transformation that did something complicated to my heartbeat.
"I would love some coffee." His voice was as warm as his smile.
We walked to the cabin together, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, smell the flour and yeast that clung to his clothes beneath something cleaner.
He didn't try to fill the silence with chatter, didn't push for conversation or explanation.
He just walked beside me, present and patient, like he had all the time in the world.
The cabin looked different through his eyes—I could tell by the way he paused at the threshold, taking it all in with obvious interest. The worn wooden counters I'd sanded and sealed myself.
The herbs hung in fragrant bundles near the window—lavender, rosemary, and thyme.
The collection of mismatched mugs on open shelves, each one with its own story.
The sunlight falling in golden rectangles across the scrubbed pine floor.
"This is beautiful," he said, and the sincerity in his voice made my chest tight. "It feels..warm."
"I've had five years to make it mine." I moved toward the coffee maker, grateful for something to do with my hands. "When I first moved in, it was practically falling apart. Leaky roof, rotted porch boards, mice in the walls. Everyone said I was crazy for taking it on."
"But you did anyway." He laughed softly.
"I needed something to fix." The admission slipped out more honestly than I'd intended. "Something I could control. Something that would stay fixed once I'd done the work."
Levi was quiet for a moment, and when I glanced over my shoulder, I found him watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Not pity—thank God, no pity—but something deeper. Understanding, maybe? Recognition.
"I get that," he said softly. "After Marcus—my brother—after going through everything with him and then losing him…
I needed something like that too. Something I could shape with my own hands, something that would rise and transform and become exactly what I intended it to be.
" He set the bread on the counter, his fingers lingering on the paper bag.
"That's when I started baking. Bread doesn't lie to you.
You put in the work, you follow the process, you trust the chemistry, and it rewards you. Every single time."
The coffee maker gurgled to life, filling the kitchen with its familiar bitter scent, and I let the sound cover the silence while I processed his words.
He'd shared something real—something vulnerable—and the old Daphne would have deflected, changed the subject, rebuilt the wall he'd just walked through.
But I was tired of walls and so tired of being alone within them.
"Will you tell me about him?" I asked quietly. "About Marcus?"
Levi's eyebrows rose slightly, surprise flickering across his features. But he nodded, settling against my counter like he belonged there, his body relaxed even as his eyes grew serious.
"He's was my older brother. Two years ahead of me, which meant he was always supposed to be the successful one.
The smart one. The one my parents held up as an example.
" He laughed, but there was old pain in it.
"And he was, for a while. Straight A's, full scholarship, the whole Golden Boy package.
But underneath all that pressure, something was breaking. He just got really good at hiding it."
I pulled two mugs from the cabinet—my chipped one and the one with faded sunflowers—and poured the coffee while he talked. The ritual gave me something to focus on, somewhere to look that wasn't his face, where the memories were playing out like shadows.