Chapter 7
SEVEN
STEVIE
The cabin is once again too quiet.
I lie on top of the covers staring at the fan that hasn’t moved in days, replaying the kitchen argument until the words blur and the hurt stays sharp.
This shouldn’t be happening.
He didn’t mean it how it sounded—I know that. I know the way he tenses when guilt hits, the barricades he throws up when cornered.
But the ache under my ribs is older. I’m somebody’s little sister first. If this goes public, the headline won’t say STEVIE AND GRADY GO STEADY. It’ll say GRADY CANOODLES THATCHER’S SISTER.
That’s what this is really about. It isn’t about my brother ordering us to keep our hands to ourselves. Not for me.
For me, it’s about worrying that I don’t belong in their world. That I’ll never be enough.
I can’t listen to my brain one more second.
I pad down the hall. Light leaks under his door. He’s awake too. My heart aches. We haven’t spoken since earlier. I’m tired of not speaking to him.
I knock, barely.
A rough, low “Yeah.”
I open the door. He’s on his side, back to me, tee stretched over his back. The room smells like cedar and heat and him. He doesn’t turn, but awareness rolls through him like a tide.
“I can’t sleep. Can I…”
“Yeah,” he says again, softer.
I slide under the covers, cool sheets against my shins, heat pouring off him. I fit my knees to the backs of his, careful with his brace. For a beat, neither of us breathes.
Then he exhales and curls around me. One arm slips under my pillow. The other drapes over my waist, palm spreading across my stomach. His nose nuzzles my hairline, breath warm at my nape.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “For earlier. I was being a coward.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I did.” He kisses between my shoulder blades. “I panicked. Thought about him. The team. Ruining the only good things I haven’t already broken.”
I lace our fingers. “You didn’t break me.”
“I could,” he says into my skin, like a confession he hates. “That scares me worse than the knee.”
We lie in that truth while lightning counts time on the walls. His heartbeat steadies mine. Words I usually hide rise up.
“It scares me too,” I whisper. “How much I want this. How much I want you.”
His arm tightens. “Stevie.”
I don’t want to talk.
I turn my head. His mouth finds mine. I press my behind more squarely against his groin. He rolls his hips gently. Testing his leg, testing me.
His kisses move down my neck as he cradles my breast with one hand. His other hand finds my pussy. I slip my fingers into the hair at his nape. Pushing myself against him more until he groans.
“Hey,” I breathe. “We go slow. We keep your knee happy. I’m in this with you.”
“Always telling me what to do,” he rasps, a scrape of humor like relief.
“Bossy.”
“Perfect.” His palm slides under my shirt, splaying over my ribs where the tiny notes live, tracing them without looking. I feel it everywhere.
And when he slides into me again, I clench my eyes shut tight, savoring every breath, every touch, as we guide each other to completion.
After, we breathe together until our pulses settle. His hand cups my hip; mine rests over his, anchoring us to now.
“Rockstar,” he whispers behind my ear. “I’m sorry—again. For ever making you feel small.”
“You didn’t make me small,” I say. “I’m just… done being it.”
“I know.” A kiss along my jaw; his thumb smooths my stomach like he’s memorizing reassurance. “I’m trying.”
“I see you,” I say. “Trying.”
We start to drift, the heavy kind of sleepy. Rain needles the glass. The generator hums. His breath evens at my neck and for a foolish second I think the worst has passed.
The crash is a gunshot through dreams.
We jerk upright. The house shudders. Wood creaks. Glass shatters. Wind screams where it shouldn’t.
“The front window,” Grady says, already swinging his legs out.
He staggers and catches the nightstand to keep from falling.
“It’s okay.” I scramble into my underwear and yank on one of his hoodies. “I’ve got this.”
The hall floor is ice-cold air.
The great room looks like a crime scene. A pine limb has speared the picture window; snow and needles tear in on a furious gust. Curtains thrash like birds.
“Shit,” I breathe. “You stay there.”
“I can—”
“Grady.” Both hands on his chest, steady. “You’ll re-injure your knee.”
Old habit wins for a second. He steps and the joint locks. The pain flashes across his face.
“Grady.”
“Okay,” he grits. “Tell me what to do.”
“Grab the trashbags from under the sink. I’ll get the ladder and duct tape.”
He nods, pale but present, pivots using the wall like a crutch. I sprint for my supplies. We reunite moments later.
He’s back in a minute, arms full of towels. “The generator?”
“It’s on. We’ll be fine until tomorrow.”
I toss a towel over the jutting tree limb to keep it from shifting and start taping plastic across the inside of the broken pane. It bucks in the wind like a living thing. My hair whips my cheeks; glass bites my bare foot. I swear once, sharp and bright.
“Stevie—” He lunges on instinct; the knee punishes him. He snags the couch arm, breath strangled.
“I’m okay.” I pull another strip. “The kitchen towel. Tie it.”
He hands it over. I knot it around my arch and keep moving. Tape. Plastic. Tape. The wind finds every gap; I slam them shut until the sheet holds. It’s ugly, but it holds.
We dry the floor, sweeping glass into piles. The area is finally secure.
“Okay,” I pant, hands raw. “First pass done. We’ll do more in the morning when—”
“I should’ve been the one to do it,” he says flatly, staring at the taped window like it insulted him. “I should’ve—”
“No.” Too sharp. I catch his face in my hands. Cold skin; colder eyes. “You should not have re-torn your ACL just to clean up a mess.”
His jaw just sets.
“Hey,” I say softer. “We handled it. You were smart. You listened. You didn’t make it worse.”
“That’s the bar? Don’t make it worse?”
“It’s the bar tonight. We can aim higher another time.”
He pulls back from my hands. “Yeah. Another time.”
My heart knocks once, hard. “Come back to bed,” I say. “We need to get warm”
He nods like his neck hurts. “You go. I’ll make sure it holds.”
I hesitate—his posture is wrong, not coiled to spring but folded to break. The old instinct rises to smooth, to fix. I swallow it.
“Okay,” I say, because I can’t be the only one choosing us. “Don’t be long.”
I leave him in firelight staring at the plastic-covered window. I crawl into his bed because it smells like him and I want that to be enough.
It isn’t.
I wake to pale gray and silence. The wind is long gone. The space beside me cold.
The suitcase by the door is packed—his duffel zipped, his hoodie is neatly folded on top. I find him in the kitchen, his hair damp from a shower, his eyes not quite meeting mine.
“Morning,” I say, because if I don’t say something normal I might break something that isn’t.
“Morning.”
“You were up early.”
“Window needed a second pass.” He nods toward it—layers tighter, edges tidy, floor clean, towels folded into a stack that’ll never be the same color again.
“Thank you.”
He nods once. “Road should be passable by noon. I called a car.”
Finally he looks at me; it’s his face but not—press-conference blank. “We should get back to Seattle. I’ll finish rehab with the staff.”
We—but he means he. I’m nowhere in that sentence.
“Right. Of course.” My voice scrapes. “You didn’t have to pack for me.”
“I didn’t,” he says—then flinches at how it sounds. “I mean—there’s time. You can hang out here and maybe get more work done without me getting in the way. If you want to—”
“Finish my EP?” I try to laugh. It comes out wrong. “Play coffee shops?”
He looks away. “This is the right move.”
“For your knee,” I say.
“For everything.” He sets his mug down very gently, like louder would shatter us. “We can’t—” He stops. Shakes his head. “It’s better if—”
I fold my arms so I don’t touch him, because I won’t beg. “Okay,” I say, tilting. “Thanks for the heads up.”
“Stevie—”
“No.” If he says my name like that, I’ll agree to anything. “You’re right. It’s smarter if we say good-bye here. But, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll leave too.”
In the bedroom I pack mechanically. It’s ridiculous that it hurts this much after days. Ridiculous and real. In the mirror, the tiny notes under my ribs, a reminder of beginnings.
Now I know how it ends.
Back in the great room, he stands by the door with keys and duffel and that neutral mouth. He looks like he didn’t sleep—like he tried to hold up the house with his shoulders and failed. I still love him a little for trying, even as he won’t let me help.
“Ready?” he asks.
No. “Yes.”
Outside, the morning is so bright it feels rude. Trees glitter with new ice; the road is a thin gray promise. He limps carefully, face set in a neutral mask.
I repeat the thing I’ve always told myself: Be enough for you, Stevie.
It doesn’t matter if I’m enough for anyone else. Maybe if I say that often enough, it’ll come true.