Chapter 14
Driven by what she’d decided to call spring fever, Sara was organizing her cottage. She had exactly fourteen mismatched mugs, three chipped plates she couldn’t bring herself to throw away, and a rabbit Other sitting on her couch looking like he belonged there.
The last item was the most disorienting.
“You’re staring,” Ben said without looking up from the book in his hands—some battered paperback about home brewing he’d found on her shelf, when she sighed and sat down on the other end of the couch.
“I’m appreciating.” She tucked her feet under her, cradling her tea. The mug was hand-painted with crooked sunflowers, a gift from a student three schools ago.
His ears twitched, swiveling towards her even as his eyes stayed fixed on the page. “Appreciating what, exactly?”
“The view.”
A muscle in his jaw flexed. His grip on the paperback tightened almost imperceptibly.
After three weeks of this—of dinners and walks and evenings spent in each other’s space—she had learned to read the subtle signs of Ben’s control.
The way his shoulders went rigid when she got too close.
The deliberate steadiness of his breathing when the neckline of her dress dipped a little too low.
The barely audible rumble in his chest when she laughed at something another man said.
He wanted her. She had zero doubt about that.
He was also driving her absolutely insane with his refusal to do anything about it.
“You’re going to overheat that book with the force of your concentration,” she said.
“I’m reading.”
“You’ve been on the same page for twenty minutes.”
His eyes finally lifted, shockingly blue in the lamplight. “Maybe it’s a very good page.”
“It’s a chapter about barrel aging.”
“Fascinating subject.”
Sara set down her tea and shifted closer on the couch. Ben’s entire body went taut, his nostrils flaring as her scent reached him. She watched his pupils dilate, watched his fingers dig into the paperback’s spine like it was the only thing keeping him anchored.
Good, she thought. Suffer with me.
Three weeks of dinners. Three weeks of his hand on the small of her back when they walked through town. Three weeks of kisses that started sweet and turned devastating before he inevitably pulled away, leaving her breathless and aching.
Three weeks of waking up alone in a bed that smelled faintly of him because he’d sit with her until she fell asleep and then disappear like a particularly stubborn dream.
She understood why he was holding back; she really did.
After everything he’d told her about his past, about his fear of losing control, about needing to be sure, she understood.
And part of her was genuinely touched by his restraint.
He cared enough to want to do this right.
He respected her enough to not just take what his instincts demanded.
But another part of her—a growing, increasingly vocal part—wanted to grab him by those ridiculous ears and demand he stop being so damn noble.
“You’re thinking very loudly,” he said. His voice had dropped an octave, the way it always did when she pushed too close. “I can practically hear the wheels turning.”
“I’m thinking about how I’m going to have to buy new throw pillows if you shred that book.”
He glanced down at his hands, at the deep punctures his claws had made in the paperback’s cover. “Damn.”
“It’s fine. I never actually planned to brew my own beer.”
“Then why do you have—” He stopped, setting the damaged book aside. “Never mind. I’ll replace it.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” His eyes met hers, and something in his expression softened. “I want to replace it.”
The moment stretched between them, warm and weighted.
Her frustration eased slightly, replaced by that dangerous flutter of hope she kept trying to suppress.
This was what made the waiting bearable—these glimpses of tenderness beneath his gruff exterior.
The way he looked at her sometimes, like she was something precious he was afraid to break.
“You’re doing it again,” she murmured.
“Doing what?”
“Being sweet when I’m trying to be annoyed with you.”
His mouth quirked. Not quite a smile, but close. “It’s a terrible habit.”
“The worst.”
He reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek with devastating gentleness, and her breath caught. His touch was always like this—careful, controlled, as if she were made of something that might shatter.
“I should go,” he said quietly. “It’s getting late.”
No. The word lodged in her throat, but she swallowed it down. Pushing wouldn’t help. She’d learned that much over the past three weeks. He needed to come to her on his own terms, in his own time. All she could do was be patient and present and trust that eventually, he’d stop running.
“Okay,” she said instead. “Early morning tomorrow anyway.”
He nodded, but he didn’t move. His hand was still on her cheek, his thumb tracing slow circles against her jaw. His ears were angled forward, alert, tracking something in her expression.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“That I’m going to need more tea after you leave.”
“Liar.”
She couldn’t help her smile. “You caught me.”
“Sara.” His voice roughened on her name. “Tell me.”
I’m thinking about how your hands would feel on more than my face. I’m thinking about the sounds you’d make if I got your shirt off. I’m thinking about whether rabbit Others are as impressive as the rumors suggest, and whether I’ll ever actually get to find out.
“I’m thinking,” she said carefully, “that you should stop worrying so much.”
His jaw tightened. “I’m not—”
“You are.” She turned her face into his palm, pressing a kiss to the center. His breath stuttered. “But that’s okay. I knew what I was signing up for.”
“Did you?”
“Male with baggage? Complicated feelings about intimacy? A desperate need to be absolutely certain before making any kind of commitment?” She shrugged. “I’ve dated, Ben. This isn’t my first rodeo.”
Something flickered in his eyes—something dark and possessive that made her stomach clench. “I don’t want to hear about your previous rodeos.”
“Then stop giving me reasons to reference them.”
He made a sound low in his throat, half-growl, half-laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“I prefer ‘delightfully challenging.’”
His hand slid from her cheek to cup the back of her neck, his claws prickling lightly against her skin. Not a threat—a promise. A reminder of what lay beneath his careful control.
“Delightfully dangerous,” he corrected. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
“So show me.”
The words hung between them like a gauntlet thrown. She watched the war play out across his features—want versus caution, instinct versus discipline. For a heart-stopping moment, she thought he might finally give in.
Then he exhaled slowly and drew back.
“Soon,” he said. “I promise. Just… not yet.”
Soon. She’d been hearing that word for three weeks. It was starting to lose its meaning.
But she nodded anyway, because what else could she do? She’d told him she understood. She’d told him she could give him time. And she meant it—she did.
She just wished time would hurry the hell up.
“I’ll walk you out,” she said.
“I know the way.”
“Maybe I want another excuse to look at you.”
His ears went flat against his skull—the rabbit equivalent of a blush, she’d realized. It happened whenever she caught him off guard with something unexpectedly sincere.
“Goodnight, Sara,” he said gruffly.
“Goodnight, Thumper.”
He shot her a look that should have been annoyed but landed somewhere closer to fond. Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, and she was alone with her mismatched mugs and her restless longing.
She flopped back against the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling.
Soon, she told herself. He said soon.
She was going to hold him to that.
A week later, Sara still didn’t have any new throw pillows, but she did have Ben’s jacket draped over her kitchen chair.
He’d left it there three nights ago after walking her home from the tavern. She hadn’t returned it. He hadn’t asked for it back. It felt like progress—a claim staked, however small.
“You’re sniffing my jacket.”
She jumped and dropped the jacket. Ben stood in her kitchen doorway, ears pricked with amusement, a paper bag in one hand.
“I was not.”
“Your nose was definitely touching it.”
“I was checking for… moths.”
“Moths.”
“It’s a vintage leather jacket. Moths love vintage leather.”
His lips twitched. “They don’t, actually.”
“Shows what you know about moths.”
He set the paper bag on the counter, moving past her close enough that his arm brushed hers. The contact sent electricity skittering across her skin. She wondered if he felt it too—that constant, building charge between them, like a storm waiting to break.
“I brought dinner,” he said. “You sounded tired on the phone.”
“Field trip day. Fourteen kindergartners at the butterfly sanctuary.” She peered into the bag, inhaling the rich scent of tomatoes and cheese. “Is this from Antonella’s?”
“Her Sunday red sauce. Made me promise to tell you it has extra cheese.”
“A woman after my own heart.”
“She has her eye on you for her grandson.”
She snorted. “Her grandson is seventeen.”
“She’s planning ahead.”
“Remind me to send her a fruit basket.”
They fell into the easy rhythm they’d developed.
He plated the pasta while she poured wine, moving easily around each other in her small kitchen.
It still surprised her sometimes, how quickly this had become normal.
How natural it felt to share space with him, to navigate the domestic choreography of an evening together.
Don’t get used to it, a voice whispered. You always get used to it, and then you have to leave.
She pushed the thought away. That was old Sara talking. New Sara—Fairhaven Falls Sara—was staying put.
“You’re quiet,” he said.
“Thinking.”
“About?”
“Furniture.”
His ears tilted. “Furniture?”
“I need a new bookshelf.” She gestured vaguely towards her living room, where a battered IKEA unit sagged under the weight of her paperbacks. “That one’s been to five apartments with me. It’s held together by hope and wood glue.”
“Five apartments.” His hands stilled on the plates. “You’ve moved five times?”
“Seven, actually. But the bookshelf only came along for the last five. Which is probably four too many—” She stopped, suddenly aware of the shift in the room’s energy.
Ben had gone very still. Not his usual controlled stillness, but something sharper. His ears were flat, his shoulders rigid, his blue eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her pulse skip.
“Seven times,” he repeated. “In how many years?”
“Um.” She did the math. “Ten? Eleven?”
“Why?”
The word came out rough. Almost angry.
“Different reasons.” She turned back to the wine, needing something to do with her hands. “Three times in college. Twice because of bad landlords, and once because it was cheaper. After that it was because I was changing jobs. The usual stuff.”
“That’s not the usual stuff. That’s—” He stopped, jaw working. “Sara. Why did you move seven times in ten years?”
She could lie. Make a joke about her adventurous spirit or her inability to commit to a zip code.
But he was looking at her with those intense blue eyes, and she found herself telling the truth instead.
“Because I never felt like I belonged anywhere,” she said quietly. “Every place I lived, I kept waiting to feel… settled. Rooted. But it never happened. So eventually I’d pack up and try somewhere new, thinking maybe the next town would be different.”
“And now?”
“Now what?”
“Do you feel settled here?”
The question shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did. But something in his voice—a barely concealed desperation—made her chest ache.
“I don’t know yet,” she admitted. “It’s only been a couple months. Ask me again in—”
“No.”
The word cracked through the kitchen like a whip.
She stared at him. “No?”
“You can’t leave.” His voice had dropped into something raw and ragged, a growl barely leashed. His hands were gripping the edge of the counter, claws scoring shallow grooves in the laminate. “You can’t… I won’t…”
He cut himself off, visibly struggling for control. His ears were pinned back, his breathing harsh, and she watched him fight his way back from whatever edge he’d stumbled towards.
“Sorry.” The word came out strained. “I don’t… That came out wrong.”
“Ben.” She moved towards him carefully, like approaching a spooked animal. “What just happened?”
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t nothing. You looked like you were about to—”
“I know what I looked like.” He still wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Just give me a minute.”
She waited, watching him breathe. The tension in his shoulders slowly eased, his claws retracting, his death grip on the counter loosening.
When he finally looked at her, the raw vulnerability in his expression stole her breath.
“The thought of you leaving,” he said quietly. “It feels like someone’s ripping something vital out of my chest.”
“Ben—”
“I know I don’t have the right to feel that way. We’re not… This isn’t…” He gestured helplessly between them. “But the idea of you packing up and moving to some new town, starting over without me…” His voice fractured. “I can’t, Sara. I can’t even think about it.”
The confession hung in the air, heavy with everything he wasn’t saying.
Her heart cracked open, all her frustration with his caution evaporating in the face of his pain.
He wasn’t holding back because he didn’t want her.
He was holding back because he wanted her too much, because he wanted her so intensely that the mere suggestion of her leaving had shattered his control.
“I don’t want to leave,” she said quietly.
“You said you never felt settled anywhere.”
“I know what I said.” She stepped closer, into his space, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. “But I also said ask me again later. Because this place feels different. You feel different.”
His eyes searched her face, desperate and hopeful and terrified all at once. “Sara—”
“I moved so many times because I was looking for something I couldn’t find. A place that felt like home. People who felt like family.” She reached up, cupping his face in her hands the way he so often did to her. “I think I stopped looking because I finally found it.”
The sound he made was wounded. Broken. Beautiful.
And then his mouth was on hers.