Chapter Ten
Willa
I woke to an empty bed, the sheets cool on Nitro’s side.
The bedroom was quiet except for the soft tick of the clock on the nightstand and the distant sound of the coffee maker in the kitchen.
I lay still for a moment, one hand pressed against my belly, and listened to the rhythm of the house -- the way cabinet doors opened and closed, the pause between the refrigerator humming and the tap running, the noises that came with a morning that wasn’t mine alone anymore.
I reached for the clothes I’d laid out the night before -- jeans and a loose sweater that hid the curve of my stomach -- and dressed with my back to the door.
The habit was old, formed in the weeks after I’d first arrived at the compound, when every moment had felt borrowed and every room temporary.
Now things were different. For one, I’d completely moved into Nitro’s room. Well, our room.
The hall was quiet as I moved through it, my bare feet silent against the hardwood.
The nursery door at the end stood open -- had been since yesterday, when I’d spent an hour arranging the stuffed animals the old ladies had brought over, lining them up on the shelf with attention.
Now I walked past it without looking in, keeping my attention on the floor in front of me, counting the boards from one wall to the next.
The kitchen smelled of coffee and toast, the scent of a morning that had started without me.
Nitro stood at the counter with his back to the door, his shoulders loose under his T-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower.
He didn’t turn when I came in -- didn’t need to.
I’d stopped being able to move through the house without him knowing exactly where I was weeks ago.
I moved to the cabinet and reached for a mug, keeping my back half-turned to the room. My hip came to rest against the edge of the counter, my weight carefully balanced.
“Coffee?” Nitro asked, already reaching for the pot.
“Tea,” I said.
He paused, his hand still on the coffee pot, then nodded and moved to the other cabinet -- the one where he kept the tea I’d bought my second week at the house.
He reached for the box without being asked, his movements unhurried but precise, the economy of a man who’d learned the hard way that rushing cost more than it gained.
“How’d you sleep?” he asked, his voice carrying none of the edge it had held in Church or during our first argument about house rules. Just a direct question, delivered with the same matter-of-fact tone he’d used to tell me about the doctor’s appointment.
“Fine,” I said, accepting the mug he handed me without looking at his face.
He considered that for a moment, then he turned back to the counter, giving me the exact amount of space I’d been trying to create.
The gesture should have felt like a victory.
Should have made the tightness in my chest ease a fraction.
It didn’t. It just made the kitchen feel bigger somehow -- the distance between us no longer empty but charged with everything neither of us was saying.
I took my tea into the bedroom instead of the living room, closing the door behind me with careful, deliberate softness.
The bed was still unmade, the sheets rumpled on my side, the pillow with the impression of where my head had been.
I sat on the edge of the mattress, my mug cradled between my palms, and stared at the wall without seeing it.
Every part of the day felt deliberate, both of us careful to maintain a little separation without openly acknowledging it.
When Nitro moved to the living room after dinner, I took the armchair instead of the couch, pulling my knees up and keeping my attention on the television.
When he asked if I wanted another cup of tea, I shook my head without looking at him.
He reached for the remote to change the channel.
He watched all of it from wherever he was in the room -- not reacting, not filling the silence with questions, but tracking every shift with the focused stillness of a man cataloging information.
He set his coffee mug down on the counter without drinking from it.
He turned the volume on the television down a notch.
He did not look away from me, not even when I made it clear that’s exactly what I wanted him to do.
The house itself felt different -- shaped now by shared routines, lingering tension, and too much awareness.
The nursery door still stood open at the end of the hall, the soft yellow walls visible from the living room.
Two mugs sat on the counter instead of one -- mine with the chip in the handle, his with the faded logo of a bar I’d never been to.
Small things. Domestic things. The specific details of a life being shared rather than merely occupied, now sitting in contrast to the gap I was manufacturing between us.
My jaw was set, my shoulders slightly drawn in, my free hand pressed flat against the side of my belly in a gesture I wasn’t aware I was making. I dropped my hand immediately, the movement automatic, and felt Nitro’s gaze track it.
The evening stretched on -- the television playing some show neither of us was watching, the living room growing dimmer as the light outside faded.
I didn’t move from the armchair. Didn’t uncross my legs or do any of the things that would have made the distance between us smaller.
Just sat there with my tea cooling in my hands and my gaze fixed on a point six inches to the left of the screen.
Nitro moved first. His attention stayed on my face, his expression giving away nothing.
“Willa,” he said.
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t have said why -- just knew, with the certainty that lived in my bones rather than my brain, that whatever came out of my mouth next would be something I couldn’t take back.
He waited for one long moment, his gaze never leaving my face, then stood in a single fluid motion that carried none of the tension he’d been holding since morning. “I’ll be in the garage,” he said.
I nodded without looking at him, my gaze still fixed on that point six inches to the left of the screen.
He crossed to the door with quiet purpose and opened it carefully, alert despite the calm expression on his face.
Then he was gone -- the soft click of the latch echoing harder than it should have, leaving the room feeling abruptly emptier.
I sat there in the gathering dark with cold tea cradled in my hands and understood, with sudden clarity, that whatever existed between us was becoming harder to ignore.
* * *
I woke at three in the morning with my throat dry and my chest tight.
The bedroom was dark except for the thin line of moonlight around the edges of the curtains, the sheets cool where Nitro should have been.
I lay still for a moment, one hand pressed against my belly, and listened to the deep silence that came with being the only person awake in the house.
Then I slipped from the bed without turning on the light and moved through the hallway with careful, deliberate steps, my bare feet silent against the hardwood.
The kitchen was dark when I pushed the door open -- no light over the stove, no lamp in the corner, just the faint blue glow from the microwave clock casting enough illumination to see by.
I moved to the sink without turning on the overhead, filling a glass with water I had no intention of drinking, and stood at the counter with my back half-turned to the room.
My reflection was barely visible in the window above the sink -- just the outline of my face, and the dark fall of my hair.
I’d been standing there for what felt like hours -- my grip tight on the glass, my attention fixed on nothing in particular -- when the air in the room changed.
I didn’t turn. Didn’t need to. I could feel him there -- the way he occupied the doorway, the stillness he brought to moments that mattered.
“I’m just getting water,” I said. “I couldn’t sleep. I should probably -- “
“Willa.”
The way he said my name -- not asking, not pushing, only needing my attention -- made warmth unfurl slowly through my chest. I straightened, my shoulders automatically squaring beneath the thin cotton of my sleep shirt, and started to say something about being tired, about needing to lie down, about how the pregnancy was making it hard to get comfortable at night.
He interrupted without force or anger, just steady confidence that told me he wasn’t letting this conversation go. “Tell me what’s going on.”
The words hung between us. I shook my head, my attention locked on a point just beside the window instead of him. “It’s nothing. I’m fine. The pregnancy is just --”
“Try again.”
He didn’t move from the doorway. Didn’t raise his voice. He just waited for me to find the words I’d been holding back since morning.
The silence stretched between us. My grip tightened on the glass, my knuckles going white against the clear surface. My chin dropped slightly, my focus moving from the window to the counter to the point where the hardwood met the tile of the kitchen floor.
And then it came out -- not all at once, but in pieces, the way something does when it’s been compressed for too long.
“I’ve been thinking about what I took from you,” I said.
“The choice you never got to make. The life you had before I showed up at the gate with nothing and no plan and two babies you didn’t ask for. ”
Nitro didn’t move. Just stood there and let me keep going.
“I know what it looks like,” I continued.
“A man doing the right thing. Claiming what’s his because that’s what men like you do.
” The words caught in my throat, but I forced them out anyway.
“I don’t want to be something you’re stuck with.
You deserve better than a life handed to you by circumstance. ”