Chapter 14
Tex
Jane’s breath shakes.
I reach out slowly and carefully, taking her hands, which are tightly clenched in her lap. Her fingers are cold, and her skin is sticky with dried muck.
I don’t care.
I rub my thumbs over her knuckles to ground myself. “Do you want to know what I felt during that phone call?”
Jane doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t pull away.
“I felt terrified because you make me want things I told myself I was done wantin’,” I admit.
Her blue eyes flicker. “Like what?”
“Like coming home to someone. Sharing the quiet.”
Jane’s throat bobs as she swallows. “You could share the quiet with someone else. Someone calm.” Her voice is tiny.
I shake my head. “Calm doesn’t challenge me. Calm doesn’t make me feel.”
Her gaze darts to my mouth, then back up to my eyes.
I inhale to steady myself. “You make me feel. That’s why I’m out of my depth.”
Jane’s lips part, but no words come out. She looks like she’s on the verge of believing me, yet terrified to.
I squeeze her hands gently. “You’re shivering, and you’re covered in cow shit. As funny as this might seem later, it’s not funny right now.”
Her nose wrinkles. “I’m disgusting.”
“You’re human,” I correct. “And you’re cold.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I know. Can I help?”
Jane’s eyes flash. “I can do it myself.”
I nod but hold her gaze firmly. “Okay, but you don’t have to.”
The words land like a door opening—quiet and unhurried, with no pressure to walk through.
Jane’s shoulders sag slightly, as if she just lost a fight she didn’t know she was in.
“Fine,” she mutters. “But don’t—”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
My chest loosens. “I won’t.”
I stand, turn on the tap. Steam rises as I fill the tub enough to warm the air. Jane watches me, her eyes wary, as I grab a towel from the rack and set it within reach, then crouch down again.
“Boots first,” I say.
Her eyes widen. “You’re not taking my boots off.”
“I’d like to take your boots off because you’re shaking, and you can barely unclench your hands,” I say calmly. “Is that okay?”
Jane opens her mouth to argue. I just look at her.
After a few seconds, she mutters, “If you make a joke about Cinderella, I’ll drown you.”
I almost smile. “That would be inconvenient for both of us.”
Gripping the heel of her boot, I tug gently. It’s stuck from the dried muck.
Jane’s face flushes. “Oh, my god.”
“It’s just a boot, not a confession.”
I work it off, careful not to jostle her, then do the same with the other. Her damp, cold socks are next. Jane’s toes curl against the tub. I keep my hands businesslike and controlled, not because I don’t feel the intimacy, but because I do.
This is not the time for heat. This is the time for care.
The smell intensifies as I help her shrug out of her coat.
Jane winces. “Kill me.”
“No,” I say simply.
She meets my gaze, startled.
I don’t soften it. “Not happenin’.”
Something in her eyes shifts, as if she heard a promise.
I peel off her cardigan next. Underneath, her shirt is also muck-streaked, but I can see the edge of something soft and blue beneath that matches the effort in her hair, the careful makeup now smudged with tears. She dressed up. For me. Then the universe threw shit at her.
My anger flares again, not at her, but at every person who ever made her feel she had to perform to be worth loving.
I pause at her shirt. “Can you stand? You tell me what you need.”
Jane nods stiffly. She takes my hands when I offer them, and I pull her up, steadying her as she wobbles slightly. She’s lighter than she should be for someone who takes up so much space. That thought makes my chest ache again.
“Turn for me?” I say softly.
Jane turns her back to me. I help her out of the shirt carefully, my fingers brushing her skin at her waist. She shivers, this time from contact, not cold.
I stop immediately. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Her voice is breathy.
I don’t push. I just move slower.
The skirt comes next. I peel it down carefully. Jane’s cheeks flush, but she doesn’t fight me. Pride is still there, but the fight has drained out of her.
When she’s down to her panties and bra, she wraps her arms around herself. “I can do the rest.”
I nod. “Okay.”
I step back and turn toward the sink, giving her space while she strips off her underwear.
The bathroom is warm now, steam curling up.
When she speaks again, her voice is small. “Can you—”
I turn halfway. “Yeah?”
“Can you stay?”
Not look. Not touch. Just stay.
I know what it costs her to ask. I’ve watched her fight for independence, push back against being cared for, and refuse help she desperately needs. And now she’s asking me to stay—not because she can’t do this alone, but because she doesn’t want to.
That breaks something in me and puts it back together at the same time.
“I’m here,” I say quietly.
I keep my back turned while she climbs into the tub, pulling the curtain closed most of the way like a fragile boundary.
I grab a clean washcloth and soap and set them on the edge. Then I sit on the closed toilet lid, facing the door, not the tub, like I’m a guard posted outside a perimeter.
A long minute passes before Jane speaks, her voice muffled. “Do you hate me?”
The question hits me like a bullet. I turn my head slightly, not enough to see, but enough that she’ll know I'm listening.
“No,” I say immediately.
“Are you… disappointed?” Her voice cracks. “Because I’m not what you planned.”
I exhale slowly. “Jane. I’m not disappointed.”
Her laugh is soft and bitter. “Then why did you say it?”
I run a hand over my face. “Because I was talking about my plans. My fantasies. The version of my life that felt safe.”
Jane goes quiet.
“You’re not safe,” I say honestly.
She makes a small sound. “Thanks.”
I glance toward the curtain, my jaw tight. “Not safe because you’re wrong. Not safe because you’re right.”
Jane’s breathing shifts.
“You walk into a room, and you fill it,” I say. “You make people adjust around you. You make me adjust. And I don’t do adjustment well.”
A pause.
“I don’t want to ruin your peace.”
I stand slowly, move to the tub, and stop at the edge where she can’t see my face unless she peeks.
“You don’t ruin it,” I say. “You add to it.”
“I don’t know how to believe that.”
I swallow hard. “I’ll show you.” The words come out before I can think. A promise.
The silence stretches.
After a moment, the water curtain shifts, and Jane’s hand emerges, trembling slightly.
I take it and help her out of the tub, wrapping her in a towel. I don’t linger or let my gaze wander. Not because I’m not aware of her nakedness. I am, but tenderness is the point right now, not hunger.
Jane shivers as I rub the towel over her hair, getting it as dry as I can. Her eyes are heavy. Exhaustion is finally winning.
“Come on,” I say. “Fire.”
Guiding her down the hall and into the living room, I settle her on the couch near the hearth.
I quickly grab one of my shirts from the bedroom and hand it to her, turning my back while she pulls it on to add more wood to the fire.
I watch the flames jump higher, sending heat blooming into the room.
When I turn back, Jane is sitting curled inward, my shirt drowning her. Her hair is damp, and her face is bare of makeup now. She looks younger. Softer. More like herself.
And the fact that she tried to erase that softness earlier makes anger flare under my ribs at whoever taught her she had to trade pieces of herself to be loved.
I sit on the floor in front of her, close enough that she can feel me but not touching.
“Say it again,” she whispers.
“What?”
“The part I didn’t hear.”
I hold her gaze. “I didn’t mean what you thought I meant. You weren’t supposed to change. I want you exactly the way you are.”
Jane’s breath catches. “Even when I’m too much?”
“Especially then, because you being too much is the point. You’re alive. You’re fire. You make this place feel less like a bunker.”
Her throat bobs. “I heard you say everything you didn’t want.”
“And you didn’t stay long enough to hear everything I need. That was my fault for not sayin’ it to your face.”
Jane blinks hard. A tear slips down anyway, and she swipes at it angrily.
I reach up and stop her hand gently. “Don’t.”
She looks at me, startled.
“I’m not sayin’ don’t cry,” I clarify. “I’m sayin’ don’t apologize for it.”
Her lips tremble. “I hate being like this.”
I shake my head. “You don’t hate being like this. You hate how people react to it.”
The words land, and her face crumples.
I shift up onto the couch beside her, careful to give her space. Jane leans into me like gravity is stronger than pride. I wrap an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in.
She goes still. Then she melts. Her breath shudders as her head drops to my chest. I hold her quietly, letting her feel the weight of me without asking for anything in return.
After a while, her breathing evens out, and the tremors fade.
“You smell like smoke,” she mumbles sleepily against my shirt.
I huff a quiet laugh. “Occupational hazard.”
“Mm,” she murmurs. “And coffee.”
“Also a hazard.”
She falls quiet for a minute.
“Tex?”
“Yeah.”
“If you ever don’t want me…” Her voice wobbles. “Just tell me. Don’t let me hear it through a wall.”
I press my lips gently to the top of her damp hair. It’s not a kiss meant to ignite; it’s a kiss meant to soothe.
“I’ll tell you,” I promise. “But I’m not there, Jane.” I tighten my arm slightly. “I’m here.”
Jane’s body relaxes against mine as exhaustion finally claims her. Her eyelids flutter, and her breathing slows. She falls asleep on my chest in front of the fire, curled into me like she belongs there.
I stare at the flames over her head, feeling something inevitable shift inside me.
She tried to make herself smaller for me.
I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure she never feels like she has to again.
Outside, the snow keeps falling. Inside, for the first time in a long time, the quiet doesn’t feel empty.
It feels like home.