Chapter 12
Sunshine
Rain tapped softly against the bedroom window before dawn, steady enough to wake me but gentle enough that I remained beneath the blankets for several quiet minutes, listening to Harbor House come alive around me.
The old farmhouse never woke all at once.
It stirred gradually, beginning with pipes groaning somewhere inside the walls, the muted thump of a door closing at the far end of the hallway, and footsteps moving carefully toward the stairs so the children could sleep a little longer.
Before long, the industrial washing machines would begin rumbling downstairs, coffee would fill the kitchen with its dark, comforting scent, and volunteers would start arriving with armfuls of supplies and stories about traffic, weather, or whatever ordinary inconvenience had tried to delay them.
For now, the house rested in that fragile space between night and morning, when everything felt softer and the memories waiting inside me seemed less determined to draw blood.
I smiled before I understood why.
Breakfast.
I had promised Charlie I would be there, and the thought warmed me enough that I pulled the blanket closer around my shoulders while rain streaked the glass in silver trails.
The promise should have been simple. I had made hundreds of promises to children over the years, some small enough to keep within minutes and others so impossible they still followed me into dreams. I would bring another blanket.
I would sit outside the door until the thunder stopped.
I would save a piece of bread from supper.
I would come back. Those words had once carried a weight that nearly crushed me because inside the Order, love and powerlessness had lived side by side.
Loving a child had never meant possessing the ability to protect them, and every promise I failed to keep had become another stone added to the grief I carried out of that place.
This promise felt different.
Charlie would be waiting in a warm kitchen surrounded by people who loved her.
Remedy would probably be standing at the stove pretending dinosaur-shaped pancakes were intentional while she corrected every movement of the spatula.
Daisy would make more food than anyone could possibly eat, Steel would steal bacon and insist he was testing it, and Bishop would sit at the end of the table with his coffee while quietly noticing everything nobody else wanted him to notice.
No locked doors waited between me and the little girl expecting my return.
No angry voice could forbid me from keeping my word.
I only had to get dressed, walk downstairs, and choose to show up.
The simplicity of that realization made my chest ache.
Then the memory of the previous night surfaced, warm enough to chase away the last remnants of sleep.
Remedy standing beside his truck beneath the clubhouse lights.
The cool evening air against my cheeks.
His quiet question before he touched me.
May I?
He had asked as though the answer mattered more than what he wanted, leaving the choice entirely in my hands even after I had already kissed him once.
I could still remember the steady warmth of his palm against my cheek, the faint scrape of his beard, and the way the second kiss had begun carefully before deepening just enough to leave me breathless.
Nothing about the moment had felt rushed or taken.
He had given me every opportunity to step away, and when I remained, he had kissed me like trust was something precious rather than something he had earned the right to possess.
My fingers rose to my lips before I could stop them.
The smile returned.
I had spent years believing desire was another form of danger, something men used to demand obedience or measure what they believed a woman owed them.
Inside the Order, affection had rarely existed without expectation.
A kind word could become a debt, a hand offered in comfort could close into a grip, and every moment of softness carried the threat of being used later as proof that gratitude required surrender.
Remedy had asked for nothing. Even after the kiss, he had stepped back before wanting more became a reason to pressure me, and the restraint in that choice had affected me almost as deeply as the kiss itself.
I was still afraid.
The admission no longer felt like failure.
Fear had kept me alive for too long to disappear simply because one good man treated me gently.
It remained beneath the hope gathering inside me, quiet but watchful, reminding me that happiness could become another thing to lose if I reached for it too quickly.
Yet fear was no longer the only voice speaking.
Somewhere between shared coffee, children’s drawings, a dance beneath string lights, and two careful kisses, another possibility had begun whispering that perhaps wanting something did not automatically make it dangerous.
Perhaps hope could be cautious and real at the same time.
I pushed back the blankets before I could spend another hour thinking myself into uncertainty.
The room was still dim as I dressed in jeans and a soft green sweater, then gathered my hair into a loose braid that immediately began slipping around my face.
Rain continued tapping against the roof while I made the bed and straightened the small stack of books on the nightstand, familiar habits that had once been about erasing evidence of my existence before anyone could complain.
Harbor House had slowly changed them into something else.
I still preferred order, but now I left a sweater draped over the chair without fear that someone would call it disrespectful.
A half-empty mug sometimes remained beside my bed overnight.
Children’s drawings leaned against the wall because Charlie insisted every room needed art, and a small white feather rested inside the frame of the mirror, still reminding me of the morning she had placed it in my hand and told me to remember the day.
The room no longer looked borrowed.
That realization slowed me near the door.
My belongings had begun settling into corners without permission.
A pair of boots rested beneath the dresser.
Two novels sat open facedown beside the bed because I had forgotten which one I was reading.
A floral scarf Daisy gave me hung from the bedpost, and Charlie’s crooked drawing of Pancake the dragon had been taped beside the window, bright yellow wings stretching over purple feet and orange horns.
None of those things were valuable. Together, though, they made the space feel inhabited rather than occupied, and I had not realized until that moment how deeply I had begun believing the room would still be mine when I returned each evening.
For years, I never allowed myself to assume tomorrow would preserve anything I loved.
Harbor House was teaching me otherwise.
The hallway remained quiet when I stepped outside, though warm light glowed at the bottom of the stairs.
The smell of coffee drifted upward along with cinnamon, butter, and something sweeter that made my stomach tighten with hunger.
I paused outside the children’s wing by instinct, listening long enough to hear soft breathing and the occasional rustle of blankets.
Emily’s door stood slightly open, revealing one small foot hanging over the edge of her bed, while Nathan’s stuffed fox rested beside his pillow where it could watch the room even while he slept.
I did not enter. The children were safe, and learning not to check every blanket and every lock twice had become part of my healing too.
Downstairs, Daisy stood at the kitchen island with a bowl tucked beneath one arm while she whisked eggs with the other. A floral apron covered her dress, flour dusted one cheek, and the old radio near the sink played a soft country song beneath the steady percussion of rain against the windows.
She looked up as I entered.
“There she is.”
I stopped beside the coffee pot. “Were you waiting for me?”
“I was waiting to see whether you’d float downstairs or walk.”
Heat rose into my cheeks before I had even poured the coffee.
“I don’t know what that means.”
Daisy smiled without looking away from the bowl. “Of course you don’t.”
“We had dinner.”
“Mhm.”
“With everyone.”
“I was there.”
“And then I came back here.”
“Eventually.”
I reached for a mug and focused more intently than necessary on pouring the coffee. “You’re being intrusive before sunrise.”
“I learned from Bishop.”
“That explains a lot.”
Her laughter warmed the kitchen. She had teased me before, usually about Charlie’s attachment or Remedy’s habit of finding reasons to remain wherever I happened to be working, but there was no pressure beneath it now.
Daisy seemed content to wait for whatever I chose to share, and that patience made honesty easier than I wanted it to be.
I added cream to my coffee before leaning against the counter.
“He kissed me again.”
The whisk stopped.
Daisy looked at me slowly, her expression brightening with such immediate delight that I regretted saying anything.
“I knew it.”
“You did not.”
“I knew something happened.”
“How?”
“You came back smiling at absolutely nothing.”
“I smile.”
“Not at walls.”
I lowered my face toward the mug. “It was only a kiss.”
Daisy resumed whisking, though her smile remained. “Was it a good kiss?”
“Daisy.”
“That’s a reasonable question.”
“It was…”
The memory returned with enough clarity to make me lose the rest of the sentence.
Her smile softened. “That good?”
“It was careful.”
The teasing disappeared from her eyes.
She set the bowl down and rested both hands against the island. “That matters to you.”
“Yes.”