15. Artemis #2
He draped the blanket over my shoulders carefully. His hands brushed the fabric, then hovered there for half a second longer than necessary.
I felt it.
The pause. The restraint. The very clear decision not to touch me more than he already was. His hands stilled, then withdrew like he was stepping back from the edge of a very high cliff.
Neither of us said a word.
I moved to sit near the fire before my mouth could betray me. The floor was warm from the hearth. I tucked my feet under the blanket and stared at the flames like they were suddenly very interesting.
Arthur knelt to adjust the logs.
The space was small enough that his knee brushed mine.
It was accidental.
We both froze anyway.
He went perfectly still, like he was afraid to startle me. I went equally rigid, every nerve lighting up at once. My brain short-circuited between Too Much and Not Enough.
He shifted back a fraction of an inch, giving me space without asking. I exhaled slowly and forced my shoulders to relax. The fire popped softly as Arthur stood and cleared his throat.
“I’m going to heat up some soup,” he said, already moving toward the tiny kitchenette like this was a completely normal interaction and not emotionally catastrophic. “It should help.”
“That would be great,” I said. “Soup is soothing. According to science.”
He accepted that nonsense without question and gave me my space.
The moment he turned away, I pressed my palms into my thighs and stared at the fire.
Get it together, Artie.
I had just ridden on the back of a dragon across the ocean. I was in Iceland. I was safe. I was warm. I was not about to spiral because a very considerate man had kind of touched me and then chosen not to.
Absolutely not.
Fartie Artie was getting a bit ahead of herself.
I took a slow breath and focused on the crackle of the fire, the softness of the blanket, and the sound of Arthur moving around the kitchen behind me.
Nothing was happening.
Which somehow made it feel like everything was.
I moved over to the couch to watch him. Arthur set a small pot on the woodstove and produced tea leaves, two mugs, a tin of soup, and bread wrapped in cloth from the cupboard. Nothing fancy. Nothing excessive.
“You’re suspiciously prepared,” I said. “This feels like a trap. Or a personality flaw.”
He paused with the kettle in his hand. “I can put it away.”
“No,” I said quickly. “Please don't put away the soup. I’m merely making an observation.”
That earned me a small smile.
“I plan ahead,” he said. “People depend on me. And I depend on Caliban.”
I grinned.
He poured water into the mugs. Steam rose, and a faintly herbal scent filled the room. When the soup was done, he brought me a bowl. I spooned some into my mouth and immediately burned my tongue. Hissing, I dropped the spoon in the bowl.
“I’m fine,” I said automatically. “It’s just a little burn. Temporary.”
Arthur was already moving. He crossed the space between us in two strides and crouched in front of me, concern written plainly across his face.
“You burned your tongue,” he said.
“It’s nothing,” I insisted. “I’ve survived worse.”
“May I?” he asked, gesturing toward my mouth like this was a normal question to ask a person.
We locked eyes.
Something settled in my chest that felt dangerous and quiet and permanent.
I blinked. “You want to… inspect my tongue?”
He paused.
Really paused.
Then he leaned back slightly, the concern on his face shifting into something sheepish and self-aware, like the part of him that realized he might have overcorrected had finally caught up.
“Now that you say that,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m realizing how silly that sounds.”
I huffed out a quiet laugh before I could stop myself.
“Yes,” I said. “A little.”
He nodded, completely unoffended. “My apologies. I tend to default to… fixing.”
“That tracks,” I said dryly. “You built a fire in record time and summoned a man in a coat out of thin air.”
“That was necessary,” he said. “This is… less so.”
I smiled at him despite myself, the tension easing into something gentler, warmer.
“For what it’s worth,” I added, “I appreciate the instinct.”
“I’m glad,” he said.
This man, my brain said very calmly, would take care of you forever. And make your life one big adventure.
I chose to ignore that thought.
The fire popped loudly.
I flinched before I could stop myself.
Arthur glanced at the hearth. The flames had grown livelier. I noticed it noticing me noticing it. Totally overstimulating.
“There must be moisture in the wood,” he said mildly.
I nodded. A second later, thunder cracked outside. The sound rolled through the cabin and rattled the walls.
I startled again.
Then I laughed, sharp and self-aware. “Wow. Very brave of me. Dragon ride? Fine. Weather? Absolutely not.”
Arthur didn’t laugh. He stood and shifted the logs, damped the fire, and closed one of the shutters. The room instantly turned quieter.
My body released the tension that had sprung into it.
“Why’d you do that?” I asked slowly when he sat back down.
“You seem to relax when it’s quieter.”
Something inside me cracked open, but I swallowed it down. “I can regulate,” I said quickly. “I’ve trained myself to. I’m very good at functioning under uncomfortable stimulation.”
He waited.
“The autistic part of my AuDHD,” I added, “has become competent at filing formal complaints anyway.”
His brows knit together. “I do not know what that means,” he said. “AuDHD.”
“It means my brain runs too fast and too loud at the same time,” I said. “Attention goes everywhere. Sensory input stacks. Patterns jump out whether I want them to or not. Sometimes it’s great. Sometimes it’s a personal hellscape. The trick is pretending I’m fine so no one gets weird about it.”
He didn’t smile at that. He leaned forward slightly. “You don’t need to out-function your own nervous system for me.”
My heart lurched.
“It doesn’t make you difficult. It makes you human.”
I stared at him.
“That thing you do,” he added gently, “where you apologize for existing a little louder than others… you don’t have to do that here.”
I felt seen on a level that was brand new to me.
The room was quiet. The fire steady. The storm held at bay.
I tried the soup again, and this time it didn’t burn me. I let myself be warm.
I didn’t feel like I had to earn it.
I smiled.
By the time the fire had settled, exhaustion caught up with me. It didn’t knock me out though, but it did buzz under my skin and refused to shut up.
Arthur shifted on the couch, then looked at me like he was checking for damage he might have missed.
“Are you ready for bed?” he asked.
“Kind of,” I said. “But if I try to sleep right now my brain will throw a tantrum.”
He nodded, his gaze drifting around the room over the books, the fire, until it landed on the side table and the puzzle on top of it—a landscape of greens and blues with a ridiculous number of pieces.
He lifted his eyebrows at me in a silent question.
I smiled. “Yes, let’s do that.”
He did not hesitate. He dumped the pieces onto the coffee table in a messy avalanche. I laughed despite myself. Loud. Uncontained.
We sat next to each other on the couch. Close enough that our thighs touched.
Neither of us moved away.
Ignoring the obvious tension, we started sorting the pieces into piles—edge pieces, colors, sky, ground. His knee bumped against mine once, then again. Each time was a little less accidental.
“This isn’t an efficient activity,” he said.
“It’s calming, though,” I replied.
“That doesn’t make it more efficient.”
I rolled my eyes. “It makes it fun.”
He glanced at me, his lips twitching with a smile. Liquid heat pooled low in my belly, and my mind flashed back to the fantasy I’d had in the shower. I shifted slightly, trying to banish it from my mind.
We continued working in silence for a few minutes. Our hands brushed, stayed close, pulled back, brushed again.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
I braced myself out of habit. “Okay.”
“Would you like to tell me more about your parents?”
My hands froze over a light blue puzzle piece.
I didn’t look at him, instead keeping my gaze firmly on the table and the shape in my fingers. “My mom always treated me like I took up too much space,” I said finally. “Physically. Emotionally. All of it.”
He didn’t interrupt.
“I was too curvy. Too loud. Too opinionated. Too present. Everything about me was framed as a problem to be managed.”
My chest tightened, but I kept going.
“My dad let it happen,” I said. “He never defended me. He just… stood there and acted like neutrality was kindness.”
I glanced up then. Arthur’s face was very still, but I saw the shock, the anger, and the disbelief that sat beneath his carefully constructed control like a live wire.
That warmed something deep in my chest—not because I wanted him angry, but because he was angry for me.
He spoke carefully. “You take up exactly enough space.”
I blinked.
“No more than you should,” he continued. “And never take up less. Please.”
My throat closed. I quickly looked back down, trying to align two pieces that absolutely didn’t fit.
“That’s a dangerous thing to say to me,” I said.
We fit two pieces together with a satisfying click.
I studied him for a second. “What about your father?”