10. Lachlan
LACHLAN
The old building breathes around me in the blue-black dark before dawn.
Pipes sigh in the walls, the industrial refrigerator hums, and the scent of yeast and strong coffee begins to fill the kitchen.
It’s a Sunday morning rhythm I know in my bones.
I slide a sheet of cinnamon rolls into the oven, the familiar routine a steady comfort in the quiet.
A week ago, this was a solitary ritual. Now, the silence feels expectant, waiting for the soft tread on the stairs that has somehow become part of the melody.
As if on cue, the door swings open and Chasity pads in, her hair a messy pile on top of her head. She’s wrapped in a grey sweater so big it swallows her hands, and the sleep still clinging to her face softens the sharp edges of her perpetual worry.
“I’m pretty sure it’s a sin to smell that and stay in bed like a responsible adult.”
A smile pulls at my mouth before I can stop it. I turn from the counter, wiping my hands on my apron. “Didn’t take you for a theologian, Possum Princess. Coffee’s fresh.”
As we move around each other, prepping for the breakfast rush, I see the ghost of the woman who arrived a week ago.
That woman moved like she was waiting for something to shatter, her shoulders hunched up to her ears.
This woman moves with an ease that’s still new, but feels earned.
She cracks eggs into a bowl with a steady hand, her movements fluid and sure as she navigates a space that is no longer entirely mine.
She still apologizes for things that don't require it—bumping my elbow as she reaches for the salt, taking the last of the milk for the pancake batter.
“Oh, God, sorry, I didn’t mean to—” She stops herself mid-sentence, the apology dying on her lips. A small, self-deprecating eye-roll takes its place. “Old habits.”
I just nod, turning back to the sizzling bacon to hide the satisfaction spreading through my chest. Each time she catches herself, it feels like a quiet victory. One less crack in the armor she wears. Another small piece of the real her, surfacing for air.
Morning sunlight cuts through the windows, illuminating dust particles dancing in the flour-hazed air over the butcher block.
The kitchen transforms into a controlled chaos of sizzling pans and the clatter of plates.
Chasity moves beside me, a natural part of the frantic rhythm.
She steals a strawberry from the garnish bowl, popping it into her mouth.
“Is all this really necessary? The little patterns with the fruit? The perfectly centered dollop of cream?” She gestures with a spatula towards a finished plate of waffles. “It’s breakfast, not a coronation.”
I take the plate from her, inspecting her handiwork. “Your whipped cream distribution is a disaster. It’s off-center. There’s no artistry. No passion.” I nudge her with my hip as I pass. “It’s like you don’t even respect the waffle.”
She laughs, a bright sound that slices through the noise. “My apologies to the Waffle King.”
Amy, one of the inn waiters, bustles through, grabbing a carafe of orange juice.
She catches my eye, then glances at Chasity, then back to me.
A single, knowing eyebrow lifts over the rim of her glasses before she disappears back into the dining room.
The unspoken observation hangs between us, a current of heat beneath the easy banter.
The breakfast rush is a blur of motion, a sequence we fall into without a thought.
As Chasity gets more confident in the space, weaving around me for pans and spoons, I start noticing something else.
It isn’t just her jokes or the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles.
It’s smaller than that. When she reaches past me for a stack of plates, her arm brushes against mine, and for a split second, she leans into the contact before pulling away.
We stand shoulder to shoulder garnishing plates, and I feel the subtle pressure of her leaning in, an unconscious drift towards warmth.
Later, I need to get to the pantry behind her. My hand finds her lower back, a simple gesture to guide her aside. “Excuse me, Princess.”
Under my palm, I feel it. A nearly imperceptible tremor, a sigh of tension releasing from her spine as she melts into the touch for a second before stepping away.
A sudden, sharp understanding hits me right in the gut.
This isn't just flirtation. She is starved for simple, gentle contact.
The realization lands like a stone, heavy and hard, reshaping everything.
The last of the breakfast crowd clears out, leaving a wake of empty coffee cups and the low buzz of the dishwasher. I rinse my hands in the sink, the frantic energy of the morning rush draining away, leaving a quiet space in its wake.
“Break time.” I nod towards the back door, already grabbing two clean mugs.
Chasity gives me a small, tired smile and follows me out onto the back steps.
Pale morning fog still clings to the valley floor, weaving through the dark pines behind the inn like smoke.
The air tastes crisp and clean. I hand her a mug, our fingers brushing.
A tiny spark. She cradles the ceramic between both hands, a familiar gesture, as if absorbing its warmth directly into her bones.
“I think I forgot,” she says, her voice barely a whisper against the vast mountain silence.
“I forgot it could feel like this.” She stares out at the trees, her gaze distant.
“Peaceful. For years, my whole body has been braced for the next thing. The next email, the next phone call, the next expectation. I didn’t even realize how tired I was until I stopped. ”
I watch the morning sun catch the loose chestnut strands escaping her bun, turning them to threads of polished copper.
The vulnerable admission hangs between us, simple and profound.
Something inside my chest shifts, a tectonic plate moving into a new, unstable position.
The easy attraction I’ve felt since she first stumbled into my lobby, soaked and panicked, sharpens into something else.
Something with weight. Something far more dangerous.
Back inside, the quiet follows us. It settles in the space between our shoulders as we work side by side at the large butcher block, prepping ingredients for the afternoon’s desserts.
The air, heavy with the sweet scent of vanilla and melting chocolate, feels charged.
Every brush of her elbow against mine is a live current.
She stops stirring a bowl of batter, her hands going still. She looks at the counter, not at me. “Thank you, Lachlan.” Her voice is soft, thick with an emotion she isn’t trying to hide. “Not just for the room. But for… this. For letting me just be here, without asking for anything.”
The sincerity in her tone is a punch to the gut.
It steals the air right out of my lungs.
She finally lifts her head, her brown eyes meeting mine from only inches away.
They’re wide and clear, shining with a fragile trust that I’ve done nothing to earn but have no intention of breaking.
A smudge of flour sits high on her cheekbone, a stark white mark against her skin.
Without thinking, without permission, my hand lifts, moving toward her face.
My thumb moves without conscious thought, brushing the flour from her cheekbone with the pad of my finger. Her skin is impossibly soft, warm under my touch. The simple contact sends electricity straight through my chest, a current that makes my breath catch.
She goes completely still. Not pulling away, not leaning in—just frozen in this moment that stretches between us like a taut wire.
The kitchen hums around us, the dishwasher churning through its cycle, the refrigerator's steady drone, but all of it fades to background static.
There's only the feel of her skin under my thumb, the way her lips part slightly as her breathing shifts.
My hand lingers at the curve of her jaw, fingers splayed against the delicate line of her neck.
I can feel her pulse fluttering beneath my palm, rapid and unsteady.
Her eyes search mine, wide and questioning, a dozen emotions flickering across her face too quickly to name.
The air between us crackles with something electric, something that makes my chest tight and my thoughts scatter.
My gaze drops to her mouth. Full lips, slightly parted, close enough that I could lean forward just a fraction and?—
"Which idiot burned the bacon?" Amy's voice cuts through the kitchen like a cleaver through bone as she barges through the swinging doors, clipboard in one hand, exasperation radiating from every inch of her compact frame.
"I've got customers asking why the dining room smells like a house fire, and I need answers. "
Chasity jerks back so fast she nearly knocks over the bowl of batter, her hand flying to her cheek where mine had been.
Color floods her face, a deep pink that spreads down her neck and disappears beneath the collar of her sweater.
She mumbles something about checking on the bread in the oven and practically flees toward the far end of the kitchen.
Amy looks between us, her sharp eyes taking in everything—my hand still suspended in mid-air, Chasity's flustered retreat, the charged atmosphere that still hangs in the kitchen like smoke.
"Burned bacon," she repeats, slower this time, one eyebrow climbing toward her hairline. "Right. I'm sure that's exactly what I interrupted."
"Table six ordered extra crispy," I manage, though my voice comes out rougher than intended. "Might've gotten carried away."
"Uh-huh." Amy's expression suggests she's buying exactly none of this. "Well, whatever you were 'carrying away,' maybe save it for after we close. Some of us are trying to run a respectable establishment."
She bustles back through the doors, muttering something about hormonal innkeepers under her breath. The kitchen falls quiet again, but it's a different quiet now. Heavy. Loaded with everything that almost happened.
I stand alone at the butcher block, my hand still tingling from the memory of her skin.
The realization hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest, sudden and devastating in its clarity.
This isn't just attraction anymore. This isn't just fascination with the beautiful, broken woman who stumbled into my life during a storm.
I'm falling in love with her.
The thought terrifies me more than any corporate deadline or family obligation ever did.
Because Chasity isn't staying. She's made that clear from day one.
Her car will be fixed, her life will call her back, and she'll disappear as suddenly as she appeared.
The possibility of watching her leave suddenly feels unbearable.