Chapter 28 Hunter
Hunter
It’s Sunday morning at the Rexon mansion.
That fact alone is enough to stop me mid-motion as I crack eggs into a bowl.
Sunday used to mean deadlines, meetings, and hitting the road before sunrise. Days were tools, meant to be used, not felt. Sundays were never slower. Never softer.
And yet here I am.
Standing in the kitchen, wearing an old Henley with the sleeves pushed up, trying not to burn waffles for my aunt.
The house feels different today. Not quieter exactly, just…unguarded. Like it isn’t holding its breath anymore. Sunlight spills through the wide windows, warming the counters, dust motes drifting lazily through the air. Even the ticking clock on the wall sounds gentler, less accusatory.
I’ve lost track of when the mansion stopped feeling like a fortress and started feeling like a home. I’m pouring the waffle mixture when I hear footsteps behind me.
“Do you need help?”
I glance over my shoulder, and there she is.
Adaline stands in the doorway like she belongs there, soft sweater clinging to her frame, hair loosely pulled back. She looks…at ease, different than when we had our morning coffee routine. Her eyes are sparkling with happiness.
And she is looking right at me.
I’m grateful my hands are busy, because the pull toward her is immediate and unmistakable, an ache to draw her in, to anchor her against my chest like she already fits there.
Before she walked into this mansion and my life, I kept affection at arm’s length. Physical and emotional. It was a rule I lived by. Now the thought of her in my arms, of talking to her just to hear her voice, keeps circling my mind like a dangerous, welcome breach.
I expect tension. Awkwardness. Maybe that careful politeness we’ve been dancing around since the hilltop and the storm and the things we haven’t said.
Instead, she smiles at me like this is the most natural thing in the world.
“I’ve got it,” I say automatically.
She raises a brow. “You’re trying to make waffles and eggs at the same time.”
“I multitask.”
She tilts her head. “That’s what people say right before something catches fire.”
I huff a quiet laugh before I can stop myself.
“Fine,” I say, stepping aside. “You can help. But don’t mess with the recipe.”
She steps closer, peering into the bowl. “Is that… nutmeg?”
“It adds depth.”
“It adds confusion,” She says.
I open my mouth to argue when she tips a little too much milk into the batter.
I groan. “Adaline.”
She winces. “Oops.”
Aunt Jane enters the kitchen and claps her hands delightedly. “Oh, good! Chaos already.”
Mrs. Lane joins her, “That’s how you know it’s a proper Sunday.”
Seeing Adaline cooking with me brings a smile to their faces, and they exchange a look I deliberately don’t try to decipher. They get seated at the breakfast table and refuse to get up. Instead, they sit there like spectators at a sporting event, shouting instructions and really enjoying the mess.
“Don’t overmix!”
“Honey, that’s too much milk.”
Adaline giggles, actually giggles, as she stirs the batter again, ignoring half the advice. Her laughter is light. Unrestrained.
I’m trying to plate eggs, waffles, and keep Adaline from committing culinary crimes all at once.
At some point, I realize I’m smiling. Really smiling.
Adaline moves to the counter to cut fruit. I lay out placemats, watching the way she moves, efficient, but relaxed. Like she’s not performing. Like she doesn’t feel watched.
She glances up. “We should eat outside.”
I look at her. “Outside?”
She nods eagerly. “It’s too nice not to.”
Something about how excited she sounds over something so simple makes my chest ache in a way I don’t have language for.
“Yeah,” I say, softer than intended. “Okay.”
Aunt Jane and Mrs. Lane exchange another look. I ignore it. Again.
The patio is drenched in sunlight when we step out. The air is crisp but warm enough to linger. The leaves aren’t ready to let go. Everything smells and sounds like a clean morning.
Adaline fusses over Aunt Jane and Mrs. Lane, draping shawls around their shoulders despite their protests.
“Its getting colder,” she insists. “You ladies need to be careful.”
I watch her do it, gentle but firm, all quiet authority and care.
She disappears briefly, and when she’s back. She’s holding my mother’s vase.
It’s filled with roses.
She places it carefully at the center of the table, glancing at me as if she’s unsure she crossed a line.
She didn’t.
I nod once, a silent thank you, and she smiles like she understands more than I said.
I don’t need to look at Aunt Jane and Mrs. Lane to know they’re staring.
When Liam shows up, the table fills with noise again, teasing, laughter, overlapping conversations. For once, I don’t feel like the outsider at my own table.
Liam grins at me over his plate. “You know you’re kind of a legend now, right?”
I sigh. “Do I want to know why?”
“You punched that Dr. Davis guy. People are saying the old Hunter is back.”
Aunt Jane laughs outright. Mrs. Lane smirks.
I feel the familiar weight of the town’s gaze, but it doesn’t press down the way it used to.
Maybe because Adaline is sitting across from me, smiling at her waffles like the world hasn’t decided who I am yet.
After breakfast, Aunt Jane excuses herself. Mrs. Lane and Liam insist on cleaning up.
And suddenly, it’s just the two of us.
Adaline pulls her sweater sleeves over her hands. “Thank you for breakfast.”
“You helped sabotage it,” I point out.
She grins. “It was delicious sabotage.”
Here we are sitting face to face, and I think of how I never replied to Wind’s last message. Adaline was lost and vulnerable, and that's why she wanted to meet North.
Or did she really want to get to know him? The thought twists uncomfortably in my chest.
Liam returns with coffee refills, joking as he passes them out.
That’s when it happens.
The cup tips.
Everything slows. I’m on my feet before the coffee even hits the air.
My hand comes up instinctively, blocking the spill from reaching her. Hot liquid splashes across my knuckles.
Liam panics and bolts for the first aid kit inside.
Adaline gasps. “Hunter… your hand—”
She presses napkins against my skin, frantic, apologetic.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”
“It’s fine,” I say automatically.
She looks up at me then, really looks at me, and the concern in her eyes knocks the breath from my lungs.
We’re standing too close.
Close enough that I can feel her warmth, and the urge to pull her into my arms nearly overwhelms me.
“I’m okay,” I say again, quieter this time.
She doesn’t look convinced. She doesn't let go of my hand.
And for the first time in a long time, neither do I.