Chapter 16
Emmaline
The second night was worse.
I’d been too wrung out after moving day to care where I slept, but exhaustion only bought me one night’s grace.
Tonight, my brain wouldn’t shut up long enough to let me drift.
Every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of the old house, every faint hum from the refrigerator downstairs kept pricking at the edges of my awareness.
Bodie said it was mine for as long as I wanted it. Our house, he’d called it. The words still felt like a costume too big for me to wear.
I rolled over again, punching the pillow like that would help. No use. The digital clock glared 1:17 a.m. I had to be up at four-thirty to get to the bakery and start the prep ovens, but sleep wasn’t happening.
Finally, I gave up. The air-conditioning had kicked off, leaving the room quiet except for Rubble’s soft, rhythmic snore from where she lay sprawled on her back at the foot of the bed. My throat was dry, and tea sounded better than tossing another hour away to the ceiling fan.
I slipped out of bed, tugged my sleep shorts straight, and padded barefoot down the hall, quiet enough I didn’t manage to wake my furry bedmate. The boards were cool under my feet. Somewhere downstairs, a dim glow of light interrupted the dark.
Not the night-light glow of the stove clock. Bigger. Warmer.
Someone was awake.
For half a second, I hoped it was just a lamp left on by accident. The other half of me—the traitorous, hopeful half—hoped it wasn’t.
I rounded the corner into the kitchen and found Bodie at the counter. Barefoot, bare-chested, wearing nothing but gray cotton sleep shorts that hung low on his hips and clung in ways I had absolutely no business noticing.
He hadn’t heard me yet. His head was bent in concentration, a lock of dark hair sticking up in back like he’d rolled straight out of bed without bothering to check a mirror.
He was spreading peanut butter across a slice of bread with painstaking precision, the kind of focus you’d expect from someone defusing a bomb rather than making a midnight snack.
My mouth went dry. And it had nothing to do with the peanut butter.
He’d been a lanky boy once—all knees and elbows and a smile too big for his face, the kind of kid who couldn’t sit still through Sunday service.
The man standing at that counter was something else entirely.
Solid. Capable. Dangerous in that quiet way that made you feel safe until you stopped to realize just how much power that really was.
Broad shoulders tapered down to a lean waist, and the narrow trail of dark hair down his abdomen disappeared beneath the waistband of those shorts and—
He turned, catching me mid-stare.
“Hey.” His voice was still rough with sleep, soft as gravel rolling over velvet. “You too, huh?”
I jerked my gaze up to his face, trying desperately to pretend my cheeks weren’t burning hot enough to light the room. “Couldn’t sleep.”
He smiled, small and knowing, like he’d caught me red-handed and was gentleman enough not to call me out on it. “Kitchen’s open. Twenty-four-hour service.”
“I was just going to make some tea.”
“Perfect timing then.” He gestured with the knife. “I’m making sandwiches.”
I leaned against the doorway, folding my arms mostly to hide what the air conditioning was doing to my chest. Right. I was totally blaming my tightened nipples on the temperature and nothing else. “At one in the morning?”
He shrugged one of those broad shoulders, reaching for another plate from the cabinet. “I was hungry.” He gestured toward the loaf of bread on the counter—one of the country loaves from my bakery, the crust golden and crackled just the way Gran had taught me. “You want in?”
“I shouldn’t.”
He waited, patient as the sunrise, the knife still in his hand.
I pushed off the doorframe and stepped fully into the room, the hardwood cool under my bare feet. “Fine. Half a sandwich.”
He cut a fresh slice of bread for me, unhurried and methodical, while I filled the kettle at the sink and set it on the stove.
The quiet between us settled like a well-worn quilt, so easy it almost seemed normal.
Almost. Except for the way my pulse jumped every time his arm brushed mine as we moved around each other in the small space.
The faint scratch of the butter knife against the plate was the only sound besides our breathing.
“Still honey on yours?” he asked, not looking up from his task.
My heart gave a stupid little kick against my ribs. “You remember that?”
“Pretty sure I remember everything about those summers.” He drizzled a ribbon of honey across my half in a careful zigzag pattern, folded it neatly with the edges perfectly aligned, and slid the plate toward me across the counter.
“Couldn’t have you corrupting my recipe without paying proper tribute. ”
The kettle whistled then, sharp and insistent in the hush. He grabbed it before it built to a full shriek, lifting it smoothly over a mug he’d apparently pulled out when I wasn’t looking. There was already a tea bag inside, the string draped over the rim. “Chamomile?”
“Yes,” I said softly, something warm and uncomfortable blooming in my chest. “How did you—”
“You always had it with honey.” His eyes met mine, warm and steady in the dim light. “Said it was like drinking sunlight in the dark.”
That was a lifetime ago. A different Emmaline, a different Bodie, a different world entirely.
He set the steaming mug in front of me and took the stool beside mine, the wood creaking slightly under his weight.
The distance between us was narrow, a foot at most, but it hummed like a live wire had been strung through the air.
I watched his hands instead of his face—strong, capable hands with a few small white scars across the knuckles that showed he didn’t shy away from hard work or difficult things.
We ate in a companionable silence that was anything but empty. It was full of unspoken things, of years and hurt and something tender trying to bloom in the ruins.
After a while he said, voice low, “You settling in okay?”
“It feels strange,” I admitted, staring down at the amber liquid in my mug. “But… safe.”
He nodded slowly, his eyes steady on mine when I finally looked up. “Good.”
The word lingered between us, weightier than it should’ve been. Safe.
As if he were really asking, Do you trust me not to hurt you again?
And as if I’d just answered, Yes. Maybe too much. Maybe more than I should.
Something shifted in the air between us, warm and dizzy and impossible to ignore, like the first hint of spring after a brutal winter.
I looked down at my sandwich, needing to break the moment before I did something foolish. “You put too much honey.”
“Occupational hazard of caring.” The words came out softer than I think he meant them.
I laughed too quickly, too nervously. “You’ve got a heavy hand with it.”
“That’s one opinion.” His smile tilted at the corner, lazy and unreadable in the low light. It should’ve been boyish, reminiscent of the kid I used to know. Instead, it was devastatingly inviting, pulling me in like some siren song singing quiet promises in the dark night.
I didn’t manage to stop myself from leaning a little bit closer, catching the subtle whiff of something fresh that was probably his body wash and something else that was all man.
Rubble chose that precise moment to amble into the kitchen. She nosed her way between us with the determination of a dog who refused to be left out and dropped her broad head squarely onto Bodie’s bare knee with a contented sigh.
He chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest as he scratched behind her ears. “You couldn’t stand it. Had to come check who was up and make sure we weren’t having fun without you.”
Her tail thumped once against the floor in lazy agreement, and her eyes cut toward the remaining bits of sandwich, as if asking, Where’s mine?
The spell broke. My lungs remembered how to work again, pulling in air that wasn’t quite so heavy. “Good girl.” I slid off the stool to scratch her ears, grateful for the distraction, for something to do with my hands. “Ever vigilant.”
“She takes her job seriously.” There was an easy affection in his voice.
I risked a glance up at him. He was smiling again, that easy, unguarded one that transformed his whole face. It did terrible, wonderful things to my pulse.
“I should probably try to get a little sleep before the alarm goes off.” I reached for my mug, wrapping both hands around the warmth.
He nodded, understanding in his eyes. “Big day tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” My voice came out thinner than I wanted, more vulnerable than I meant to sound.
I took one last bite of the sandwich, more for something to do with my mouth than because I was actually hungry.
The peanut butter stuck to the roof of my mouth, salty-sweet and perfectly familiar, exactly like it had been when we were kids sneaking snacks during those long summer days.
Only now it tasted different. Now it tasted dangerous, like a promise I wasn’t sure I was ready to keep.
“Thanks for the tea,” I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper in the quiet kitchen.
“Anytime.”
The single word held weight, a promise that extended beyond midnight snacks and warm beverages. I started toward the hall, then hesitated in the doorway. Something in me needed him to know, even if I couldn’t quite explain why. “You’re good at this, you know.”
He frowned, genuine confusion crossing his features. “At what?”
“Making it easy to breathe.” The words came out softer than I intended, more honest than was probably wise.
For a second he didn’t move, didn’t even seem to breathe himself.
The kitchen light cast shadows across his face, highlighting the strong line of his jaw, the way his eyes had gone impossibly soft.
Then he said, quiet enough I almost missed it over the persistent hum of the air conditioner, “Guess that’s mutual. ”
My heart did something complicated in my chest. I left before I said something reckless, before I ruined the fragile understanding between us with clumsy words that might ask for more than either of us was ready to give.
“Goodnight, Emmaline.” His voice followed me into the hall.
“Goodnight, Bodie,” I said, so softly I wasn’t sure he even heard my reply.
Back in my room, I set the mug carefully on the nightstand and slid under the covers, pulling them up to my chin.
The sheets were cool against my skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth still radiating through me from the kitchen, from him.
Rubble came in a moment later, her nails clicking softly on the floor before she leaped back up onto the bed.
She circled twice, kneading the comforter with her paws, before resuming her starfish pose with a contented sigh that seemed to fill the whole room.
The house creaked again, those same settling sounds that had seemed so alien earlier. But now they didn’t sound foreign anymore. Now they sounded like home—or at least like the beginning of one.
I still smelled peanut butter and honey, faint and sweet against my skin. Still heard the low rumble of his voice, the way he’d said my name like it meant something. Like I meant something.
Safety and tenderness weren’t supposed to feel like the same thing, weren’t supposed to tangle together until you couldn’t separate one from the other.
But lying there in the darkness, eyes wide open and staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, watching shadows shift across plaster, I wasn’t sure I knew the difference anymore. Wasn’t sure I even wanted to try.