Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
ALLIE
Soft red and blue flannel brushes my cheek as I turn, sinking deeper into warmth. Pine sap and smoke whisper where I am. The quiet confirms it.
I’m still here.
In the light of morning, that realization doesn’t feel as dangerous as it should. It doesn’t feel wrong.
Last night, though.
God.
I press my lips together as memory rolls back in—of a silent man, too generous, too steady. And a woman unraveling in front of him. Chaos follows her everywhere.
No wonder Trevor always said I was too much.
My thoughts drift to him unbidden. To bars and concrete. To rage simmering under control. He’ll hate me for this. Or maybe he won’t care at all.
That last thought should land harder than the others.
Why doesn’t it?
The question feels external, as if someone else placed it in my mind. I trace the bruises on my wrist, then the tender place at my shoulder. Shame rises, familiar and sharp.
Not fear. Not pain.
Something else.
Different.
I sit up slowly, the room cooler now that I’ve left the bed. The borrowed toothbrush and toothpaste sit neatly on the dresser where I placed them last night, like someone thought ahead for me. I don’t know what to do with that.
My clothes from yesterday need to be washed. After a moment’s hesitation, I pull on a flannel from the dresser, socks that bunch at my ankles, and a pair of sweatpants far too big. I look ridiculous. I also feel strangely held.
The fabric smells like him. Wood smoke. Soap. Clean.
I push the thought away.
At the window, I part the curtain and see him outside, splitting logs. His movements are economical. No wasted effort. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t linger. The axe rises and falls in a steady rhythm.
There’s nothing showy about it. Nothing performative.
And that unsettles me more than anything.
I’m still watching when he stops and looks up. Our eyes meet through the glass. He tips his hat once and turns back to his work.
That’s it.
No smile. No invitation.
My chest tightens anyway.
I feel like a burglar opening and shutting doors until I find his washer, dryer, and mudroom. As I measure detergent, warmth pools in my chest. Soon, my jeans and sweater will smell like him, too.
In the bathroom mirror, I brace myself to see the woman from last night—fractured, frantic. Instead, someone quieter stares back. Still shaken. Still bruised. But not coming apart.
If less than twenty-four hours away from Trevor can do this… what about longer?
The thought no longer feels like betrayal. It feels like possibility.
In the kitchen, a mug sits beside the coffeepot. A plate on the stove is covered carefully. When I lift it, warmth and the smell of eggs and potatoes rise. Bacon tempts, crisp at the edges.
He cooked. Without asking. Without expectation.
I sit at the table and eat slowly, listening to the fire crackle and the muted thud of wood outside. The silence settles into me, uncomfortable but grounding. Like a deep breath I forgot how to take.
I’ve been trained to fill silence. To brace for it. To read it as warning.
But this—this is just quiet.
The door opens, cold air sweeping in. I flinch before I can stop myself.
He sets the logs by the hearth and straightens. “Sleep well?”
The question is so ordinary it throws me.
“Yes,” I say carefully, watching his face for judgment that doesn’t come.
“Coffee okay?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
His eyes flick briefly to the flannel hanging off my shoulder, then away again. A muscle works in his jaw.
“Better shower,” he says gruffly, jerking his thumb down the hall.
I nod, unsure if I’ve done something wrong. “I hope it’s okay I borrowed—”
“Fine,” he says, already turning away.
The word lands heavy. Final. Not unkind.
When I’m alone again, I finish eating and stare at my phone. No messages. My body tightens in anticipation anyway. It always does.
I lift my sleeve and study the bruises. They don’t look like accidents. They look like truth.
They don’t need excuses.
They need action.
From me.