Chapter 8
Harmony
The next morning, Val-Du-Lys smelled like wet earth and woodsmoke.
The storm had dragged half the trees across Main Street and left puddles deep enough to swallow boots.
The gutters still hissed, but the air had that washed-clean feeling, like the town had survived something it hadn’t expected to.
Sandy texted at dawn that we wouldn’t open the shop today.
Go help where you can, she’d written. We’ll fix the storefront tomorrow. So I did.
By ten, I’d tied my hair back with a scrunchie and joined the group clearing debris near the square.
We worked until our arms burned, passing splintered branches into piles, sweeping up glass from a cracked lamppost. People called out hellos between tasks, half-smiling, half-exhausted.
It was the kind of morning that reminded me what a small town really was—messy, tired, but still showing up.
I was hauling a wet planter across the street when a familiar voice called, “Careful, Sunshine.”
I turned, and there he was. . . Eric with his backward baseball cap, thick flannel jacket, and jeans that hugged his thighs in a way that looked downright sinful.
He had been a big guy in high school but he filled out more over the years we’d been apart.
His muscles were larger, his shoulders wider.
He was loading branches into the back of a truck.
Even tired, he looked steady, like the storm hadn’t touched him at all.
“Morning.” I smiled, setting the planter down. “Didn’t think I’d see you out here.”
“You say that like I don’t know how to hold a shovel,” he grinned.
“You run a bakery,” I teased. “Your hands make pie dough, not firewood.”
His mouth curved, low and quiet. “Harmony, I run an orchard and the bakery. My hands are very used to multitasking.”
It seemed like there was inuendo in that comment and something warm flickered in my chest, unexpected and too familiar.
Maybe because I knew how good the eighteen-year-old version of him had been with his hands.
I pushed those thoughts away. He was being cordial, dare I say, friendly.
I would take what I could get because I didn’t have many friends around here.
We worked side by side for a while, stacking debris.
The silence between us wasn’t awkward it just hummed, like we both remembered how to move together.
Every so often our arms brushed when we bent for the same branch.
I told myself it didn’t mean anything. My pulse disagreed.
A car door slammed behind us. Becket’s cruiser rolled to a stop, tires hissing in the puddles. He leaned out the window, eyes scanning the street before landing on me.
“You have a minute?” he asked.
I rubbed my gloved hands together to get the dirt off and walked over. “Sure.”
“Need your signature on the updated statement,” he said. “Olivier and Nico’s stories don’t match yours.”
“Shocking,” I muttered. “What are they saying?”
He sighed. “Something about you exaggerating what happened. But they slipped up. Mentioned someone else I haven’t identified yet. I think they’re up to something, Harmony. Keep your head down for a few days.”
Eric shifted closer without meaning to, arms crossed, jaw tight. “You have patrols running near her place tonight?”
“Already arranged,” Becket said. “But maybe stay in the center of town, okay?”
If my brother and Nico were up to something, I didn’t want to get caught in the crossfire. Growing up I knew what that looked like.
“Got it,” I said, though my stomach knotted.
Becket gave me one of those looks that saw more than I wanted him to, then nodded once and drove off. The street went quiet again, except for the sound of rain starting up. I shivered before I could stop myself.
Eric noticed immediately. “You should get inside. You’re soaked.”
“You’re soaked too,” I shot back.
I hesitated a moment because my instinct was to invite him up to the loft for a warm drink.
It was a crazy thought, but then he grinned as he picked up more branches and those soulful eyes did something to my insides.
As if I was on autopilot, I said, “Come up to the loft. It’s warmer there. I’ll make tea.”
For a heartbeat, he just looked at me, like he was weighing the danger of saying yes. Then he nodded. “Tea sounds good.”
I exhaled the moment he agreed and we walked together silently down the street to the loft.
The loft smelled faintly of lavender and rain.
I kicked off my boots near the door while he left his by the mat, dripping onto the wood.
He was still damp from the cleanup, jacket half unzipped, hair curling slightly at the ends.
My heart hadn’t gotten the memo this was supposed to be friendly.
“Sit,” I said, lighting a candle near the window. The flame caught, small but steady.
He did, at my little kitchen table. His broad shoulders filled the space, the soft hum of the kettle the only sound between us. I poured the tea, steam curling between us like breath.
He wrapped his hands around the mug. “You didn’t have to invite me in.”
“You looked cold,” I shrugged.
“I’ve been colder,” he retorted like he held a different meaning. I thought back to a time when we first spoke at school on the bleachers in the cold.
“Not the point,” I said, smiling. “You’re allowed to thaw out sometimes.”
He watched me over the rim of the cup, eyes tracing my face like he was remembering every feature he’d once known by heart. “You always did know how to make a place feel like spring.”
The words landed low in my stomach. “You shouldn’t still say things like that.”
“Why not?” he asked so innocently.
“Because you mean them,” I said softly.
He didn’t deny it. The silence that followed felt heavier than the rain outside.
I broke it first. “Becket’s worried. Thinks Nico and Olivier aren’t done.”
His jaw tensed. “They’re never done. Olivier is very happy to continue where your father left off, and Nico is only happy to please.”
“I just told the truth. I didn’t think that would make me a target,” I confessed.
“You stood up to people who use fear like currency. You don’t back down, and they hate that.” He reached across the table, his thumb brushing the back of my hand before I could pull away. “You’re safe now, Sunshine.”
The name hit me in the same place it always did, somewhere between my ribs and my heart. It was messing with my head. When he called me Sunshine at eighteen it was intimate. Now we were supposed to be friends, I thought.
“You shouldn’t still call me that,” I whispered.
He smiled faintly. “I shouldn’t do a lot of things.”
His fingers stayed where they were, the warmth of his skin seeping into mine. My breath stuttered. Don’t fall into this again, I told myself. But the part of me that had missed him didn’t care.
“I’m not that girl anymore,” I said. “The girl who fell in love too easily, who saw the good in everyone and relied on other people to save her.” After everything I’d been through with testifying against my father, surviving being ostracized by my town, and learning to rebuild myself; I had become stronger and guarded.
Life had hardened me. My innocence and naivete had floundered at eighteen when I walked away from this town, from Eric and my family.
I wasn’t in a position to get swept away with emotions. I had to be careful who I trusted.
“I know. But she’s still in there somewhere. The one who taught me how to bake bread that actually rose, who believed this town could be better.”
“She also ran,” I reminded him.
He shook his head slowly. “No. She survived a difficult situation.” He blinked and swallowed hard like he was understanding the gravity of why I ran.
The kettle clicked again, echoing too loud in the quiet. I stood to pour more tea, mostly because I needed distance.
“You can’t keep showing up every time something happens,” I said to him. “I’ve become good at taking care of myself.”
“I’m not here because I have to be, I’m here because I want to be.”
I froze my hand, tightened around the mug. His voice was calm, matter-of-fact, but something in it uncoiled a knot I’d been holding for years.
“Eric…”
He pushed back his chair, standing too close. “You don’t have to say anything.”
The air between us hummed, electric and warm. I could smell the rain still clinging to his jacket, the faint trace of coffee and smoke from the morning’s cleanup. My pulse thudded in my throat.
He reached up, gently tucking a strand of wet hair behind my ear. The touch was soft, reverent, dangerous. “You still shake when you’re trying not to cry,” he murmured.
I managed a laugh, barely. “Occupational hazard.”
He smiled, but his eyes were all heat. “You always did fix things for everyone else. When’s the last time someone fixed something for you?”
“I don’t need fixing,” I assured.
“I didn’t say you did.” His gaze dropped to my lips and lingered there.
The rain hit harder against the windows, a steady drumbeat. I could have leaned in. I wanted to. Instead, I stepped back, breath unsteady.
“You should go before it gets worse out there.” It took everything inside me to deny him, but this is what had to be done. This is what I needed to do to keep my guard up.
He hesitated, then nodded. “Lock your door tonight.”
“I always do.”
He walked to the door, boots in hand, and turned once more before stepping into the hall. “Be careful, Sunshine.”
When the door closed, the loft felt too quiet. I leaned against the counter, palms pressed to the cool surface, heart still racing. Outside, the rain softened to a whisper. Through the window, I could see him walking away down Main Street, head bent against the drizzle, jacket dark with water.
I whispered to the glass, “Goodnight, hero.” Because that’s what he had always been.
The word pulled a memory out of me like a tide I couldn’t fight.
Another storm, years ago thunder rolling off the river, rain hammering the road so hard it blurred the headlights.
My father had sent me out with Olivier, said it was a quick errand.
“The wicked never rest,” he’d joked as we left, like that made it fine to send his teenage daughter into a downpour.
We were supposed to pick up an envelope from someone waiting near the docks, money for one of his “shipments.” I didn’t ask questions back then; asking only got you silence or a look that promised worse.
The river was high that night, the current swollen and mean.
Olivier parked by the embankment, muttered something about being quick, and jumped out.
I followed, slipping on the wet grass. The ground gave way beneath me, my foot catching in a tangle of roots and broken branches.
I went down hard, ankle twisting. By the time I called his name, Olivier was already gone, his engine fading into the rain.
That was my brother, always thinking about himself before anyone else.
The pain in my ankle came sharp and fast. Water rushed around my leg, cold enough to steal my breath.
I tried to pull free, but the branch held like iron.
I fumbled for my phone, my fingers shaking, and scrolled through contacts I shouldn’t have memorized. I didn’t think. I just called Eric.
He answered on the first ring. “Harmony?”
My voice cracked. “I—I’m by the river. My foot’s stuck. I can’t. . .”
“Stay where you are,” he said, already moving. “I’m coming.” I broke into a sob. What would I have done if I hadn’t met him? Who would I have called?
The next ten minutes were an echo of thunder and headlights cutting through rain. Then he was there, sliding down the embankment, mud streaking his jacket. He didn’t ask what I was doing or why. He just waded in, water soaking his jeans, and freed my leg from the branch with careful hands.
“You’re freezing,” he said, voice rough but steady.
“I’m fine,” I lied. My teeth were chattering so hard the words barely made it out.
He scooped me up like I weighed nothing and carried me to his truck.
The heater blasted warm air, fogging the windows.
My foot throbbed, my ankle swollen and red.
He drove me to his house because it was closer than mine, and well, no one really liked to come close to our property for fear of getting shot.
He carried me inside, I remember the smell of him, fresh body wash, cedar and vanilla, like the whole world had turned gentle for a minute.
He ran the bath himself, checked the temperature with his wrist, then helped me lower in.
The water stung at first, then settled into heat.
He turned his head politely, giving me space but staying close enough that I didn’t feel alone.
When I finished, he handed me one of his shirts and wrapped a towel around my shoulders.
“Your dad’s going to be furious,” he said quietly.
“He won’t notice I’m gone,” I told him. “He never does.”
He crouched in front of me, towel still in his hands, eyes searching mine. “Then I’ll notice.”
No one had ever said something like that to me and meant it.
He made me tea that night too, the way he still likes it strong, with honey instead of sugar.
We sat on his couch, thunder fading in the distance.
He wrapped my ankle, careful and slow. When his fingers brushed my skin, something inside me broke open.
I don’t know who leaned in first. Maybe it was me.
Maybe it was both of us. But the kiss was soft, hesitant, the kind that steals air before it deepens.
When he carried me to his bed, the rain outside became a rhythm we moved to without words.
It wasn’t wild or rushed; it was the kind of closeness that felt like safety, like being seen for the first time.
That night, I learned what it meant to be cared for, not used. Loved, not owned.
Years later, standing at my window whispering his name into the dark, I could still feel the ghost of that night. The warmth of his hands, the steady heartbeat against my back, the promise in the way he said, “You’re safe now.”
And maybe that’s why I still called him hero, not because he pulled me out of a storm, but because he was the first person who ever made me believe I could survive one.