17. He’s Been Exhausted, Hasn’t He?
17
HE’S BEEN EXHAUSTED, HASN’T HE?
KRUZ
The first thing I notice when I wake is the light. It’s different—softer, warmer. Actual sunlight spills through the windows, cutting through the lingering shadows of the storm.
For a moment, I just lie there, letting the brightness seep into me, and then I hear it—a hum. Something running.
The heater.
It takes a second for it to register, but when it does, relief washes over me.
The room isn’t as cold anymore.
I turn my head and see Ezra still asleep beside me, his face half-buried in the pillow.
He looks… younger like this.
Less guarded.
The lines of worry etched into his face are softer now, almost nonexistent.
He’s exhausted. He’s been exhausted, hasn’t he?
I don’t know why that realization hits me so hard, but it does.
He’s done so much—he was thrown into an impossible situation, made decisions he probably didn’t want to make, dealt with things no one should have to deal with.
Since we’ve been here, he’s worked nonstop keeping things running or fixing things.
And for what?
To protect me?
To keep me safe?
I don’t understand him, not completely, but I’m starting to and I do know this: he hasn’t stopped moving since we got here. Maybe it’s time someone looked out for him, too.
I slip out of bed as quietly as I can, careful not to wake him, and grab the cleanest clothes I can find.
The hot water is a luxury I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed until I step into the shower. The crust of the last few days washes off me, the heat soaking into my skin, and for once since coming here, I feel human again.
By the time I’m out, I feel lighter, physically and emotionally. I towel my hair dry and head into the kitchen, deciding to do something I haven’t done in ages: cook.
It’s a small thing, but it feels right. A way to care for him, the way he’s been taking care of me.
I rinse the rice in a dented metal pot, swirling the grains with my fingers as the water turns cloudy. It takes a few rinses before it runs mostly clear, and then I set it on the stovetop with just enough water to let it steam. There’s no measuring, just instinct and the hope that I don’t screw it up.
While the rice simmers, I turn my attention to the beans. They’ve been soaking since last night, and when I pour the water off, the scent is earthy, familiar. I scrape them into a pan with a little water, the boiling filling the quiet space around me. A few pinches of salt, a dash of something vaguely spicy from one of the few salvaged seasoning jars, and they start to take on warmth, softening with the heat.
It’s a slow process, one that forces me to focus, to keep my hands busy while my mind refuses to calm.
I’d been so sure of who Ezra was when we got here. Dangerous. Cold. Calculating. But now… now I’m not so sure.
I stir the beans, watching them break down slightly, thickening into something that looks like an actual meal.
I can’t stop thinking about everything he told me last night—the things he’s endured, the things he’s done because he had no choice.
He’s still dangerous—there’s no denying that.
But he’s also something else.
Someone else.
Someone who’s seen too much, done too much, but still refuses to let it break him.
Someone who’s risked everything to protect me.
I focus on fluffing the rice with a fork, watching the steam curl into the air, trying to push it away. But it’s no use.
Because the truth is, I don’t know what scares me more—the idea that Ezra is exactly who I thought he was.
Or the possibility that he’s something more.
My feelings toward him have shifted, haven’t they? I don’t know when it happened. Maybe during the storm, maybe even before that.
But it’s there, undeniable and unrelenting.
His darkness doesn’t scare me. What terrifies me is how much I want to step into it.
I’m so lost in my thoughts I don’t hear him come in. It’s not until I feel his arms around my waist, his hard body pressing against mine from behind, that I realize he’s awake.
“Good morning,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.
I stiffen at first, startled, but then I relax, leaning back against him. “Morning.”
His lips brush against my neck. “You’re up early,” he says, his hands sliding down to rest on my hips.
Making someone feel like this first thing in the morning should be illegal.
“You looked like you needed the sleep,” I say softly, turning my attention back to the stove. “Figured I’d make breakfast.”
He hums, his lips lingering against my skin. “I could get used to this,” he says, and there’s something in his tone—something warm and teasing—that makes my heart skip a beat.
I don’t respond. I can’t. Because if I do, I might say something I’m not ready to admit yet.
I could get used to this too.
Instead, I focus on the food, trying to ignore the way his presence sets my skin on fire.
But it’s no use.
He’s everywhere—his warmth, his scent, his voice—and I don’t ever want him to let go.
He leans down, his chin resting on my shoulder, watching as I stir the beans in the pot. “This is nice,” he says, and there’s a softness in his voice that tugs at something deep inside me.
“It’s just rice and beans,” I mutter, but my skin feels hot.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “Feels… normal.”
Normal.
The word hits me harder than I expect, and I realize how much I’ve craved that, too.
A moment where the chaos fades, and we’re just two people in a kitchen, making breakfast.
“Do you miss it?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Miss what?”
“Normal.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I feel him shift behind me, his arms tightening slightly around my waist. “I don’t think I ever really had it,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.
I wait, letting the silence stretch, hoping he’ll fill it. And he does.
“Mornings when I was young looked more like closed doors and hushed voices than a mother cooking over a stove,” he continues. “Breakfast was whatever I could grab before I left. And dinner... if my father wasn’t home, it was quiet. If he was...” He trails off, but I hear so much more in his silence.
My fingers find where his rest against my stomach, brushing over his knuckles. “That sounds lonely.”
He huffs out a humorless laugh. “It was. But I didn’t really know anything else.” Another pause. “It didn’t get much better as I got older. Relationships—if you could even call them that—were always surface level. People didn’t stick around, and I didn’t ask them to.” He squeezes me tighter. “No one ever cared enough to.”
I swallow against the tightness in my throat. “That’s not true.”
He exhales, the warmth of his breath against my neck. “Maybe not now.” He presses a slow, lingering kiss to my shoulder, and when he speaks again, his voice is even quieter. “But you see why this is different for me.”
I do.
I turn my head to look at him, and the vulnerability in his eyes makes my heart pinch. “You deserve to know what normal is like,” I say.
His gaze holds mine, something passing between us. “Maybe,” he says softly, and there’s a flicker of something—hope, maybe—that makes my chest twist.
We eat together at the small table, the sunlight streaming in through the windows, and for a while, it feels like all our problems don’t exist.
“I know you’re trying to fix things,” I say finally, breaking the silence.
He looks at me, his brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”
“With the Assembly.”
With us .
He releases a long breath, running a hand through his hair.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I say gently. “Not yet.” I pause, then add, “But I am proud of you for trying—despite everything. Even without knowing the details, I know that much.”
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to argue, to brush it off like he always does. But then, after a long beat, he nods—small, almost imperceptible, but there.
And somehow, that’s enough.
I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—this could be something real. Something that lasts.