Chapter 13 - Sean
Lying in bed back home, I can’t seem to fall asleep.
I drift in and out of something shallow and punishing, the kind of half-awareness where my body is still but my mind never shuts off.
Every time I get close to slipping under, the bond yanks me back.
It’s sharp, insistent, unforgiving, as if it haunts me like a nightmare even in my restlessness.
The bond hums under my skin like a live wire, while her scent, the feeling of her soft, supple frame, remains ingrained on my flesh.
The bond also keeps buzzing louder every time Emily stirs on the other end of it.
And she stirs a lot.
I feel her grief like it’s my own. Raw, choked, as painful as it was when I stepped out of her bedroom when she kicked me out.
It’s desperate in a way that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with fear.
I feel the way she curls in on herself, the way she tries to shove the night behind a locked door and fails. I feel her crying.
That’s the part that destroys me. I hate that I can feel it all because of what happened, and that there’s nothing I can do to comfort her. She won’t allow me that privilege.
I press my forearm over my eyes and breathe through the ache in my chest, jaw clenched so tightly it hurts.
I don’t reach for her through the metaphysical bond.
I don’t push. I don’t let myself cross that line again, no matter how much every instinct screams to go to her, to pull her close, to undo the damage I helped carve into her heart.
She told me to leave.
So, I did.
But leaving doesn’t mean I stop caring. It doesn’t mean I stop feeling. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean I stop protecting her.
That’s why, when dawn breaks, it doesn’t feel like relief washing over me when the sun comes up. It feels like surrender. I’m surrendering to that which I cannot do, and accepting that I can’t cross the boundaries she set last night.
Even if it hurts, even if it kills me inside.
I now know what rejection feels like, and perhaps I had it coming. It’s punishment for my past crimes.
Throwing on clothes, I grab my toolbox and a ladder from the shed at the back of my house and head straight for Emily’s cottage before I can talk myself out of it.
The storm passed sometime in the early hours of the morning, leaving the world washed clean and heavy with mist. The air smells like wet earth and pine as I cross the yard, boots sinking slightly into the mud.
It’s usually a fresh scent that brings comfort, but today, it’s the smell of my darkness and gloom.
Emily’s cottage comes into view, quiet and small against the trees, and I slow down with a sigh. The damage is obvious even from here.
The hole in the roof gapes like an open wound, and I gulp, feeling an ache deep in my chest as if Emily’s cottage reflects my anguish.
I take a deep breath before I continue toward the cottage, stopping at the back and tightening my hand around the handle of the toolbox. I don’t knock. I don’t call her name.
I don’t want to startle her or force her into another conversation she didn’t ask for.
This isn’t about us. It’s about the fact that her roof is compromised, that rain poured into her home all night, and that she was exhausted, alone, and hurting.
I can fix at least one thing, because I know that she won’t let me fix anything else.
She’s still determined to shut me out, and that’s where I’ll remain until she decides otherwise.
So, I set the ladder against the side of the cottage, then climb up and get to work.
The roof is slick from the rain, but I move carefully, methodically, pulling away damaged shingles, laying down tarp, and sealing what I can before replacing what needs to be replaced. My hands know what to do even if my heart doesn’t.
Fix the problem. Secure the structure. Protect what’s underneath.
It feels like muscle memory. Instinctive.
I don’t let myself think about what’s underneath this roof beyond the practical: her bed, her kitchen, the walls she built her life inside when she was trying to survive without me. Thinking about anything else is dangerous territory.
Still, the bond is relentless, and I feel her waking up inside her bedroom. Trying to tune it out is pointless. It’s so strong that there’s no way I can feel anything else except the way she’s feeling.
I feel the moment she realizes she isn’t alone. She’s not startled, not afraid, just quietly aware. Her emotions flicker, cautious and sore and guarded, like a wound that hasn’t scabbed over yet. She doesn’t push at the bond this time. She just…watches.
I don’t look down, but I can feel her eyes boring into me as she recognizes my presence.
I keep my focus on the roof, on the rhythm of the work, even when I feel her step into the kitchen below.
I know exactly where she is without seeing her.
I know the weight of her gaze, the way she stands too still, like she’s afraid any movement might shatter something fragile between us.
Minutes pass like that, maybe more, and I keep myself busy.
I hear the kettle go on, then off, and then the sweep of the mop across the floor as she cleans up from last night.
Next, I hear the hot water filling her cup.
I’m aware of everything, every movement, and especially the torrent of her mixed emotions.
Finally, she speaks.
“You didn’t have to do this,” she says from below, looking up. Her voice is quiet. Not sharp. Not accusing. Just tired.
I pause long enough to wipe my hands on my sweatpants before answering. “I know.”
That’s it. No explanation. No justification. I can hardly bring myself to look into her eyes, so I keep my gaze pinned to what I’m doing as I knock a nail into the tarp, through the wooden beam to keep it secured in place.
I hear her exhale, a small sound, like she was bracing for an argument that never came.
“This doesn’t change anything,” she says after a moment. “Last night…it shouldn’t have happened.”
The words land heavily, even when I expected them, like the hammer slamming into my chest instead of the roof.
I need a moment to compose myself, my heart shattering into pieces that are strewn further than any storm could have achieved.
I don’t look at her. I can’t, because I might break.
I don’t react. I just keep working to distract myself, to keep the last bit of my dignity intact.
“I’m not here to change anything,” I say evenly, swallowing the anguish building like a lump in my throat. “I’m not here to talk about last night.”
She doesn’t respond right away, and I can feel her frustration spike, hot and sharp, tangled with confusion and something softer she doesn’t want to name.
Her magic stirs, then stills. Controlled, but barely.
Still, it’s noteworthy that she can control it at all.
It must be because of what happened last night, even if she won’t admit it.
Emily drops her gaze to the contents of her cup, and from up here, I can see her reflection on the surface of her tea, and I notice how sad her eyes have become. “You’re just gonna pretend that nothing happened?” she asks finally.
I secure another shingle, my hands steady and as controlled as I’m trying to keep my voice. “I’m acting like your roof needed fixing. Isn’t that what you want?”
“Yeah.” She looks up and forces a smile onto her face. “I prefer that.”
“I know,” I say again, softly this time.
She steps closer, and I can feel it through the bond—the shift in her presence. Not toward me exactly, just nearer, like she’s testing the space between us.
“You don’t have to do any of this. You don’t have to do anything for me,” Emily reminds me. “You don’t have to show up like this and pretend—”
“I’m not pretending, Em,” I interrupt gently, turning my eyes to her with a sincere but sad smile before she can spiral. “And I’m not asking for anything.”
Silence stretches between us as I hold her gaze, a million things left unsaid between us as we both silently make a promise to put what happened between us last night in the past, buried with the rest of our history.
But I can’t help but notice everything, etching her face into memory for the millionth time, but like it’s the first time I’m seeing her. That’s how an angel should be appreciated.
She stands in the kitchen doorway, wrapped in one of those oversized sweaters she always wears when she’s trying to feel smaller than she is.
Her eyes are puffy, rimmed red, shadows carved beneath them like she hasn’t slept at all.
Seeing her like this twists something deep in my chest, but I don’t let it show.
“I just want you safe,” I finish. “That’s it.”
Her throat bobs when she swallows. “That’s what confuses me,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper when she sighs. “You care now. And it still…affects me.”
I nod once. “I know…” I whisper, not wanting to argue or push too much. I don’t drag our past into the daylight where it’ll bleed all over the present. I give her what she asked for—space, honesty, and no pressure.
When the repairs are done, I climb down the ladder, pack my tools, and turn to leave without another word. As I pick up my toolbox and swing the ladder over my shoulder, Emily steps out from the corner of her cottage, stopping me in my tracks.
“Sean.” She says my name like a breath, her eyes finding mine.
From this close, I can see that the restlessness she’d been feeling—the same I had been feeling last night—has taken its toll on her physically, her eyes framed by dark circles, sunken as if she didn’t get enough sleep.
The bond hums again, and instead of seeing a torn girl standing before me, I see an angel who is powerful beyond her own comprehension.
She hesitates, arms folded tight around herself like she’s holding something together that wants to fall apart.
There’s a part of me that wants to throw down the toolbox and ladder and pull her into my arms, comfort her, and soothe her through the emotional chaos she’s going through.
But I know she won’t allow me to do that, and she’ll just hate me more.
“Thank you,” she says timidly, her voice small and careful. Real. “For the roof.”
The bond pulses, but it’s soft this time. Not painful. Not overwhelming. Just a quiet acknowledgment, like a single light flickering on in a dark tunnel.
“You’re welcome,” I reply, lowering my head as if I’m bowing curtly. I don’t stay. I don’t push my luck.
But as I walk away, the ache in my chest doesn’t vanish. However, it eases just enough to remind me that hope doesn’t always roar. Sometimes, it whispers.
And for now, that whisper is enough. Even if it doesn’t look like much.