Chapter Four #2
Rawley came in and watched from the threshold, arms crossed, leaning like he owned the space and everything in it. He didn’t say anything, but I could feel his eyes on me, heavy as a hand between my shoulder blades.
I kept my head down and worked, hands flying through the old rituals: salt, pepper, a glug of oil. I tossed in the chopped kale, knowing it would cook down to nothing, but at least I could say I tried.
The kitchen light was yellow and dim, the old kerosene lamp humming a little when I turned it on.
Outside, the sun burned the edge of the horizon, lighting the clouds up blood-orange and pink.
The shadows stretched long and soft across the counters, turning every surface into a half-remembered dream.
Rawley shifted his weight, clearing his throat. “Need help?”
I shook my head, but not in a mean way. “Almost done. But you could set the table?”
He nodded, grabbed two plates from the cabinet and silverware from the old wooden box by the sink. He moved around the kitchen like he’d lived here his whole life, every step sure and deliberate. He even found the napkins—paper, but still—and set them with a kind of precision that made me smile.
When I finished, I spooned the hash onto the plates, added a fried egg to each, and brought them over. We sat, facing each other across the battered wood, the light catching in the little dings and scars of a hundred years’ worth of meals.
We ate in silence at first, shoveling food with the single-mindedness of men who’d burned twice their body weight in calories since breakfast. The only sound was the click of fork against plate and the distant whine of the wind in the chimney.
Halfway through, Rawley broke the silence. “You ever cook for a crowd?”
I swallowed a mouthful of potato and shrugged. “Just the bakery. We used to have to bake enough for the whole school district, plus half the town. I liked it, though. There’s a rhythm to it.”
He nodded, considering. “This is good.”
“Thanks.”
He wiped his mouth, then gestured at the map in my notebook, which I’d left on the counter. “You always plan out your days like that?”
I blinked, thrown by the question. “Not really. I just like to see what’s coming.”
He grinned, quick and sharp. “You and me both.”
There was a comfort in it, the parallel. I let myself relax a little, even as the nerves under my skin hummed with awareness of him—his scent, his size, the way he filled the room like an electric field.
I reached for the salt, and Rawley reached at the same time. Our fingers brushed, skin to skin, and neither of us moved to pull away. The touch lingered, warm and solid, for a heartbeat that stretched into two, then three.
He let go first, but there was something in his eyes when he looked at me—something raw and unfinished. I stared at my plate, willing the heat in my cheeks to go away.
The rest of dinner went quick. We finished, then washed up together, Rawley drying while I scrubbed. It was easy, the way we moved around each other. Like we’d been doing it for years, not days.
When we finished, he leaned against the counter and looked at me, really looked, eyes steady and unblinking. “You did good today.”
I wanted to say something back, something clever or grateful or even just normal, but the words stuck. So I nodded, biting my lip, and hoped he understood anyway.
He did. I saw it in the way his shoulders eased, in the small lift at the corner of his mouth.
“Get some rest,” he said, voice low. “Tomorrow’s another long day.”
I watched him go, boots thumping up the stairs. The kitchen went quiet, the light turned soft, and I stood there for a long minute, breathing in the rich smell—something like promise.
When I finally went up to bed, the house was still. I closed the door to my room, flopped down on the mattress, and stared at the ceiling.
The moon was higher now, ghosting through the curtains and making every shadow look blue and bottomless. I tried to sleep, but my body was too wound up, nerves fizzing just under the skin.
I replayed the day in my head: the walk through the fields, the way Rawley looked at me when I talked about soil and seed, the weight of his hand on mine at the table.
Every memory glowed, neon-bright against the dark.
I’d never wanted anyone like this. Not even close. The ache of it was almost physical, a sweet, sharp pressure in my chest and low in my belly. I kept telling myself it was nothing, just a phase, a fluke, the product of too many lonely years and the shock of finally being seen.
But it wasn’t nothing. Not the way Rawley looked at me, like I was a puzzle he wanted to solve. Not the way my whole body hummed when he was near. Not the way, right now, my skin remembered his touch better than anything I’d ever worn or eaten or held.
I rolled over, buried my face in the pillow, and tried to breathe through it. The house creaked and settled, a lullaby of old wood and wind. I wondered if he was awake, too, lying there with his fists clenched, fighting off the same storm I was.
Maybe it was crazy to think that someone like him could want someone like me. But for the first time, I let myself hope.
I fell asleep with a smile on my lips, heart beating so loud I was sure he could hear it in the next room.
Tomorrow, I told myself. Tomorrow, I’d try again.