Chapter 33
Oakley Kate
Ipad into the kitchen the next morning, careful on the crutch, and find an adorable sight at the stove. Silas flips pancakes while Aubrey perches on the counter in his hoodie, swinging her legs and humming something that might be the goal horn from last night.
He looks different in the daylight. Lighter, maybe. The bruised shadows under his eyes haven’t vanished, but the hard edge in his shoulders has softened, replaced by something I can’t name.
“Morning,” I say.
Aubrey grins. “We’re making breakfast for the winner!”
Silas flips a pancake so high it almost hits the vent hood. “And apparently for the art critic who said my slapshot was ‘kinda rude.’”
I bite back a smile, leaning against the doorframe. “I stand by that review. You embarrassed that poor goalie in front of his whole family.”
He smirks, eyes flicking up to mine. “You sound real sorry about it.”
I’m not. Seeing him on the ice—focused, alive—was the first time I’d seen him look like himself in weeks.
Aubrey points the spatula toward me like a gavel. “You’re the taste tester.”
“Pretty sure that’s the chef’s job.”
She gasps, scandalized. “You can’t taste your own cooking! That’s bad luck.”
Silas hands her a plate, patient as ever. “That’s birthdays, bug.”
“Breakfast, too,” she insists, serious.
He glances at me over her head, a silent see what I deal with, and I can’t help but laugh. This is what I used to picture when the world felt too sharp—coffee, happiness, being part of something safe.
If these last few days have proven anything, it’s that finding and maintaining safety can be tricky. And when you think you’ve found it, you forget how fast everything can shift.
By the time we sit down to eat, sunlight spills through the window, glinting off the glitter still stuck to my knuckles from last night’s sign-making marathon. The stuff really is eternal. Aubrey talks with her mouth full about the “epic battle” between Silas and a defenseman twice his size.
Silas listens, smiling faintly, but I see the twitch in his jaw every time his phone buzzes on the counter. He doesn’t reach for it, but he hears it. Every time.
“You should get out of the house today,” I say quietly when Aubrey runs to grab her gear bag. We’re still trying to keep things normal for her sake, so she’s spending the day at the rink with Hannah and the dog so she can sort Thorn’s paperwork for him.
His gaze flicks to mine. “You trying to get rid of me already?”
“Trying to keep you from pacing holes in the floor.”
He’s quiet for a beat then says softly, “You should get out, too.”
“Planning on it.” I nudge the crutch with my toe. “If I can manage stairs, I can manage a coffee run.”
Something like pride flashes across his face. “You sure?”
“Doctor’s orders. Sort of.” I don’t mention that it’s mostly stubbornness and caffeine withdrawal. “I’ll drop Aubs with Hannah then stop by the market.”
He nods, but his eyes linger, like he wants to argue and knows better. “Text me when you get there.”
“I will.”
“And when you leave.”
“Silas.”
His mouth lifts, barely. “Humor me.”
I nod, because I know what that need for control costs him.
The world looks different from behind the wheel.
Autumn sunlight hits the windshield. How have I been in Steele Valley for nearly two months already?
Aubrey chatters in the passenger seat, telling me all about her latest art project idea—pumpkins made of cotton balls and glitter.
She’s the only kid I know who can make glitter sound like a weapon.
When I pull up to the Casons’ house, she unbuckles and leans forward to hug me. “Don’t have too much fun without me!”
“Wouldn’t dare it.”
She nods, satisfied, then pauses with her hand on the door. “You’ll keep an eye on Silas, right? He’s been really jumpy lately.”
I guess we haven’t been as secretive as we’ve thought.
“I’ll check on him,” I promise.
She hops out, gear bag bouncing against the backs of her legs, and doesn’t look back. For a long moment, I sit there, engine idling as I say a little prayer that, whatever happens, that little girl escapes the brunt of it.
Then I put the car in gear and drive.
The market is nearly empty when I pull in, thanks to most people being at work. A quick thumbs-up text to Silas is read immediately. The crutch feels lighter today. I may get brave at home, but I’m not stubborn enough to try making it through a full day without some kind of help.
A few familiar faces call out good-morning. Mrs. Callahan from the diner asks about my leg. Someone from the PTA waves from behind the bakery display.
For once, the attention doesn’t make me flinch.
I pick up coffee beans, milk, and the cinnamon Aubrey likes in her cocoa. It feels good to move through the aisles, to do something that doesn’t revolve around worry.
Near the checkout, I hear Thorn’s voice—steady, low, and instantly recognizable. He’s by the front window, scanning the parking lot like he’s expecting trouble.
When his eyes find me, they soften a fraction. “Hey, Oakley.”
“Morning.”
“How’s the leg?”
“Still attached,” I say, earning a laugh. “How’s Silas when he isn’t with us?”
Thorn’s mouth tightens. “Skated like he meant it last night. That’s an improvement.”
It is. It really is.
He nods toward my cart. “Need an escort to the car?”
I shake my head. “Think I’ve got it handled.”
“Still,” he says gently, “if anything feels off, call me or Silas. Sheriff’s got extra patrols near your street.”
The reminder sends a cold thread of worry through my spine. I force a smile anyway. “Thanks, Thorn.”
He tips his chin once. “Always.”
Outside, the wind bites harder than it did thirty minutes ago. I balance the grocery bag in one arm and my crutch in the other, heading toward my car.
Halfway there, I hear it—an engine idling two rows over. It sounds like an older truck, maybe. The rumble crawls under my skin before I even see it. Dark blue. A man with a ball cap is in the driver’s seat.
My pulse jumps.
Then the driver door opens, and Mr. O’Reilly from the hardware store climbs out, waving cheerfully before heading into the market.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “Get a grip,” I mutter to myself, fumbling for the keys.
The thing about fear is that it doesn’t disappear when the threat does. It lingers, changing shape until you almost mistake it for instinct.
By the time I start the car, my hands have stopped shaking enough for me to let Silas know I’m heading his way.
When I pull into the driveway, Silas is outside fixing the porch light. Is that another new security camera? There is a smear of dirt across his cheekbone, and his sleeves are shoved to his elbows.
He looks up when he hears the tires crunch on gravel. Relief flickers across his face before he masks it. “Hey,” he says, coming down the steps. “You did it.”
I lift the grocery bag. “Even managed to not crash into anything.”
“Proud of you.” He takes the bag, fingers brushing mine. “How’s the leg?”
“Sore. Worth it.”
Inside, the house smells faintly of cleaning supplies and coffee. The good kind—a hint of pine missed with the best fresh-ground dark roast.
While he puts the groceries away, I sink onto a stool at the island. The quiet between us is comfortable now, not loaded like it used to be.
“You talked to Thorn?” I ask.
He glances up. “He texted. Patrols are still circling.”
I nod, tracing the edge of the counter with my fingertip. “I saw him at the market. He said the same.”
He exhales slowly, leaning against the counter. “Good.”
“Not at all odd that he showed up at the store right when I did. Or that he kept an eye on the parking lot the entire time.” I don’t mind that he did it, but I’d like him to own up to it.
There’s a long pause. Then softly, almost like he’s confessing something, he says, “I keep thinking he’s going to call again.”
I meet his gaze. “You mean your dad.”
“Yeah.” His voice goes rough. “And I keep thinking—if he does, maybe I should answer. Just to know what he wants.”
“Silas—”
“I won’t. I know it’s not smart. But part of me…” He trails off, shaking his head. “I hate waiting for it.”
I understand. Waiting is its own kind of cruelty.
I reach across the counter, covering his hand with mine. “Then don’t wait. Live. Practice. Yell at rookies. Make pancakes. Let the rest be noise.”
He studies me for a long moment, thumb brushing the edge of my wrist like he’s trying to memorize the shape of it. “You’re good at that.”
“What?”
“Making the impossible sound simple.”
“I fake it well.”
He smiles, the tired kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Still works.”
The afternoon drifts by in the form of lazy snuggles and television. Aubrey gets home, dumps her bag by the door, and immediately starts asking to go buy pumpkins so she can bedazzle them.
By sunset, the house glows soft and gold.
Silas sits on the couch untangling lights while I string new ornaments.
He’s muttering under his breath about knots when the doorbell rings.
The sound snaps through the quiet, sharp enough to make us both freeze.
Silas sets the lights down slowly, every muscle going still.
“Probably a delivery,” I say, but my voice isn’t steady.
He moves toward the door anyway, glancing at the side window before unlocking it. A package sits on the porch, brown box, no return label. My stomach drops as he bends to inspect it before tilting the top toward me.
A. Harrison
Aubrey.
He hesitates before bringing it inside carefully and setting it on the counter. The tape isn’t secure, and the handwriting is unfamiliar but neat. Inside rests a snow globe. Steele Arena sits under falling glitter. There isn’t a note.
“Could be from Hannah or someone else at the rink,” I say, though I’m not sure if I believe it.
He studies the globe for a beat longer, jaw tight. Then he sets it on the mantle, out of reach. “Probably.” He doesn’t believe his words either.
“You think it’s from him?”
“I don’t know.” But I can see the answer in his eyes.
Outside, the wind picks up, brushing against the windows like a whisper.
I move closer, sliding my hand into his without thinking. “We’ll be okay,” I whisper.
He doesn’t promise it back, but his grip tightens. Maybe peace isn’t the absence of fear. Maybe it’s learning to breathe beside it—and choosing to stay anyway.