Chapter 6 – Ezra
The first thing I notice when I wake is the silence.
The wind has stopped howling, the windows no longer rattle. The only sounds are the soft crackle of dying embers in the hearth and Wendy's steady breathing beside me.
I open my eyes slowly, letting them adjust to the pale gray light filtering through the window. Dawn, or close to it.
The room is colder, but beneath the blankets it's warm. Wendy is pressed against my side, her head on my chest, one arm draped across my stomach. Her hair tickles my jaw, and I can feel the soft rise and fall of her breathing.
I don't move. Don't want to wake her. Don't want this moment to end.
But eventually, responsibility wins.
I ease myself out from under her carefully, pulling the blanket up around her shoulders as I slide out of bed. She stirs slightly, murmuring something I don't catch, then settles back into sleep.
I pull on my pants and a shirt, moving quietly across the room. The floorboards creak under my weight, and I pause, glancing back at the bed.
Wendy doesn't wake.
I step into the main room and immediately check the fire. The embers are still glowing, barely, and I add kindling and a small log, coaxing the flames back to life. The wood catches quickly, crackling and popping as the fire spreads.
Bolt lifts his head from where he's sprawled near the couch, tail thumping once against the floor. I nod at him, and he settles back down with a contented sigh.
I move to the window and pull back the curtain.
The storm has passed completely. The sky is a clear, pale blue, and the sun is just beginning to rise over the mountains, casting shadows across the snow. Everything is white and still, untouched except for the faint tracks of animals near the tree line. The world looks new and clean.
I let the curtain fall and turn back to the cabin.
I move to the stove and start preparing breakfast. Coffee first, then oatmeal and bread. My hands move through the familiar motions, but my mind is elsewhere.
She'll leave today.
The road will be passable by midday, maybe sooner. I can walk her back to her car, make sure she gets out safely. She'll drive back to wherever she came from, and Kinsley and I will go back to the way things were.
The thought settles low in my chest, heavier than I want it to be.
I don't want her to leave.
The realization isn't new, I admitted it to myself last night, but in the clear light of morning, it feels even stronger.
I hear a door creak open behind me, and I turn to see Kinsley padding into the room, her hair tangled and her eyes still half-closed with sleep.
"Morning," I say quietly.
She yawns and rubs her eyes. "Is Wendy still here?"
"She's asleep."
Kinsley nods and moves to the table, climbing into her chair. She watches me as I pour her a cup of water and set it in front of her.
"Is she leaving today?" she asks.
"Probably," I say.
"Oh."
I look at her, and she's staring down at her cup, her expression unreadable.
"Do you want her to stay?" I ask.
She shrugs, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. "I don't know. Maybe."
"Why maybe?"
She looks up at me, her dark eyes serious. "Because she's nice. And she's good at teaching. And she makes you smile."
I blink, caught off-guard again. "I smile."
"Not like that," Kinsley says. "Not like you did last night."
I don't know what to say to that, so I turn back to the stove and stir the oatmeal, buying myself time.
Behind me, I hear the soft pad of footsteps, and I glance over my shoulder to see Wendy emerging from the hallway. She's wearing one of my shirts and her hair is loose and messy around her face. Her cheeks are flushed, and she's smiling, small and tentative.
"Morning," she says softly.
"Morning," I reply, my voice rougher than I intend.
She crosses the room and sits down at the table next to Kinsley, who immediately perks up.
"Good morning, Kinsley," Wendy says.
"Good morning," Kinsley replies, her voice bright now. "Dad's making oatmeal."
"Smells good."
I dish out three bowls and bring them to the table, setting one in front of each of them before taking my own seat. Wendy picks up her spoon and takes a bite, then smiles.
"This is really good," she says.
"It's just oatmeal."
"It's good oatmeal."
Kinsley giggles, and Wendy grins at her, and I feel that tightness in my chest again.
We eat in comfortable silence, the only sounds are the clink of spoons against bowls and the crackle of the fire. Bolt wanders over and sits at Wendy's feet. She reaches down absently and scratches behind his ears, and he sighs contentedly.
When we're finished, Kinsley carries her bowl to the counter and looks at Wendy. "Do you want to see more of my books?"
Wendy smiles. "I'd love to."
Kinsley takes her hand and leads her toward her room, and I'm left alone at the table, staring at my empty bowl.
I hear their voices drift down the hallway, Kinsley's excited chatter and Wendy's warm, patient replies.
And then I realize how much I've already gotten used to the sound.
I stand and clear the table, washing the bowls and setting them aside to dry. Then I move to the window again, looking out at the mountains.
The snow is deep, but the roads will be clear soon. Someone from town will come through with a plow, or I can dig her car out myself if I need to. Either way, she can leave.
But I don't want her to.
The thought loops in my mind, insistent and undeniable.
I turn away from the window and walk down the hallway, stopping at Kinsley's door. It's open, and I can see Wendy sitting on the floor, Kinsley beside her, both of them bent over a book.
Wendy glances up and sees me standing there. She smiles, and something in my chest loosens.
I step into the room. "Kinsley, can you give us a minute?"
Kinsley looks between us, then nods and stands, carefully closing the lid of her box. "Okay, Dad."
She slips past me and disappears down the hallway, leaving Wendy and me alone.
Wendy stands slowly, brushing off her hands, and looks at me with a question in her eyes.
"The storm's passed," I say.
"I know."
"Road'll be clear soon. I can walk you back to your car."
She nods, her expression carefully neutral. "Okay."
I take a breath, then another, and step closer.
"Or," I say, my voice low, "you could stay."
Her eyes widen slightly. "Stay?"
"Here. With us." I pause, choosing my words carefully. "I know it's fast. I know you don't owe us anything. But…" I break off, searching for the right words. "Kinsley likes you. I can see it. And you're good with her., you're good for her."
"Ezra—"
"And I—" I stop again, forcing myself to meet her gaze. "I don't want you to leave."
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see the emotions flickering across her face—surprise, uncertainty, hope.
"You're asking me to stay," she says slowly. "Here. In the cabin. With you and Kinsley."
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"As long as you want."
She blinks, and I see the shimmer of tears in her eyes. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough," I say, echoing her own words. "I know you're kind. I know you're patient. I know you're good with kids, and you make Kinsley laugh, and—" I pause, my voice roughening. "I know I feel safer with you here than I have in years."
A tear slips down her cheek, and she swipes at it quickly. "What if I'm not what you need?"
"You are."
"What if I mess this up?"
"You won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're here," I say simply. "Because you stayed last night even when you were scared. Because you didn't run when you saw how we live, or judge us, or try to change us. You just… fit."
She lets out a shaky breath and steps closer, closing the distance between us. Her hands come up to rest on my chest, and I cover them with my own.
"I don't have much to offer," I say quietly. "No city conveniences. No easy life. Just this cabin, these mountains, and us."
"That's enough," she whispers. "That's more than enough."
Relief crashes over me, so strong it almost knocks me off balance. I pull her into my arms, holding her tight, and she buries her face against my chest.
"Are you sure?" I ask, my voice muffled against her hair.
"Yes," she says, her voice firm despite the tears. "I'm sure."
We stand like that for a long moment, wrapped around each other.
Behind us, I hear the soft pad of footsteps, and I glance over my shoulder to see Kinsley standing in the doorway, the dog at her side. She's watching us with wide eyes, and when she sees me looking, she smiles.
"Is Wendy staying?" she asks.
I look down at Wendy, and she nods, smiling through her tears.
"Yeah," I say. "She's staying."
Kinsley's face lights up, and she rushes forward, wrapping her arms around both of us. Bolt barks once, tail wagging furiously, and nudges his way into the middle of the group.
We stand there in Kinsley's small room, tangled together, and for the first time in years, I feel whole.
Later, after Kinsley has gone back to her room and Wendy has changed into her own clothes, we sit together on the couch, the fire crackling in front of us. Bolt is sprawled at our feet, snoring softly, and Kinsley is curled up in the chair nearby, reading.
Wendy leans against my side, her head resting on my shoulder, and I wrap my arm around her, pulling her closer.
"What now?" she asks quietly.
"Now we live," I say. "We figure it out as we go."
She smiles and laces her fingers through mine. "I can do that."
I look around the cabin, at the fire, at Kinsley, at the dog, at the woman beside me, and I realize something.
I didn't just rescue her. She rescued me too.
And for the first time in years, I'm not afraid of what comes next.