Chapter 38 Breath Between Worlds #2
By late afternoon, the day had settled into the golden quiet you only get when the sun is low, and the world finally lets itself relax.
The air outside was heavy with wet leaves and woodsmoke, and inside, life hummed: Mateo humming some off-key rock song as he “optimized” the firewood pile, Aiden muttering as he repaired a loose floorboard, me wrestling with an ancient vacuum cleaner that only seemed to redistribute the dust.
We fell into a rhythm.
Not perfect, but close enough to taste.
I folded the blankets, tucked them around the edges of the couch like a makeshift nest, and watched as Aiden coaxed a stubborn splinter from Mateo’s thumb with tweezers and surprising patience.
Dinner was leftover soup, reheated on the stove until it bubbled and spat. I sprinkled in a little too much salt, accidentally, I swore, and set the table, proud of myself for remembering where the spoons were.
Aiden took one taste and pulled a face so exaggerated I almost spit mine out laughing. “Careful,” he said, “somewhere out there, a deer just had a coronary.”
Mateo howled with laughter, and for the next ten minutes, every other word was “salt,” or “deer,” or “Mom’s cooking is a controlled substance.” I pretended to be offended, but the truth was, I’d have doubled the salt just to hear them laugh again.
When the soup was gone, we stacked the dishes and passed them down the line: Mateo soaping, Aiden rinsing, me drying.
It was like the world’s least efficient assembly line, but it felt good, the routine of it, the way our hands brushed when we swapped plates or the way Mateo narrated his own process: “Soap, rinse, victory!”
Afterward, we lingered in the living room. Mateo stretched out on the rug and showed off what he called his “wolf yoga moves,” basically a series of exaggerated stretches that looked suspiciously like regular old gym class, only with more howling.
Aiden watched, arms crossed and a smile threatening at the corners of his mouth. “I’m pretty sure wolves don’t do downward dog,” he said.
“Shows what you know,” Mateo shot back. “How else do they stay fit?”
I laughed, a real one this time, and the sound echoed in the rafters as if it belonged there.
We moved as a unit, cleaning up, rearranging pillows, refilling the wood basket. There was an ease to it, a give and take I hadn’t realized I missed until it was right in front of me.
At some point, Aiden found an old radio on a shelf, dusted it off, and coaxed it to life. The music was a local AM station, tinny and old-fashioned, but it filled the room with a soft static that made everything feel a little less fragile.
For a fleeting, perfect moment, it didn’t matter what we were running from. It didn’t matter who might be hunting us, or what waited outside the ring of porchlight and wolves. We were just three people, tucked away in the woods, daring to believe we could be something like a family.
I let myself believe it, too.
Even if only for the night.
* * *
The house, post-Mateo bedtime, was too quiet. The kind of quiet that feels like a prelude, or an omen. I perched on the edge of the couch, knees drawn up, the book I’d tried to read open and upside-down in my lap. I could hear every tick of the fire, every sigh of wind in the chimney.
Aiden had stepped out into the night to check on the patrols. The wolves outside had finally stopped circling, which should have been a relief, but instead left me feeling exposed.
When Aiden came in from the porch, he moved more quietly than any man almost two meters tall had a right to. He sank onto the opposite end of the couch, and the only warning was the creak of old springs and the faint trace of his scent.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring into the fire like it might teach him to speak. For a while, we just sat in silence until he finally said. “He’s a good kid, your boy.”
“Thank you,” I said, surprising myself with how much I meant it. “He’s better than I deserve.”
Aiden glanced at me, sideways, with a lopsided smile. “You know that’s not how it works, right?”
I shrugged. “If there’s a manual for any of this, I never got the memo.”
He nodded, looking back at the fire. “I know the feeling.”
I studied him in profile: the jawline dusted with stubble, the scar at his eyebrow, the warm hazel of his eyes. He looked tired. Maybe more tired than I felt. The silence stretched between us, not awkward, but loaded.
I reached for the tea I’d made earlier, cold now, and wrapped both hands around the mug. “You ever think maybe we’re just… screwing it all up? That no matter how hard we try, there’s no way to win?”
He let out a single, quiet laugh. “Every day.”
He turned to me, and his eyes were softer now, a little less guarded. “You did good, Josie. Tonight. With him. With all of it.”
I shook my head, looking down at the chipped edge of the mug. “I’m not enough. Not for what’s coming.”
“None of us are,” he said. “That’s the big secret.”
I laughed, short and bitter. “Some secret. I feel like the whole world’s been screaming it at me since I was seventeen.”
He shifted closer, just a fraction, but enough that I could smell the warmth of him, the aroma of woodsmoke and earth. “You know what the difference is between people who break and people who make it through?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“They keep going anyway. Even when the odds are trash. Even when it’s hopeless.”
There was a pause.
He looked down, hands flexing open and shut.
“I used to think I had to fix everything myself. Protect everyone. Prove I was more than…this.” He gestured at himself, at the scars and the muscle and the damage.
“But the truth is, sometimes you just need someone to remind you why it’s worth fighting in the first place. ”
He didn’t look at me, but I saw the way his hand hovered at his knee, fingers twitching like he wanted to reach out but didn’t dare.
I set my mug aside.
“I’m scared,” I said, the words tumbling out before I could filter them. “Not just of Kyle. Of what Mateo might become. Of what I’ll have to do to keep him safe.”
He met my gaze, steady and unwavering. “You’ll do what you’ve always done. You’ll fight. You’ll win.”
I swallowed. “What if I can’t?”
“Then I’ll be here to help you try again,” he said, and this time he did reach out, his hand settling over mine on the couch cushion. His palm was rough, warm, and the weight of it felt like an anchor.
I let myself lean into it. Just a little.
“Is this how pack life works?” I asked, a smile tugging at my lips. “You just brute force your way into helping the helpless?”
He grinned. “Something like that.”
We sat like that for a while, hand over hand, the heat between our fingers more honest than any words.
When I finally pulled away, it was only to close the space between us, sliding closer until our shoulders touched. My heart tripped in my chest.
He put his arm around me, hesitant at first, then more sure. I let my head rest on his shoulder, and for the first time since the world had gone off the rails, I felt a flicker of safety.
“Tomorrow’s going to suck, isn’t it?” I murmured.
He laughed, low and rough. “Probably. But at least we’ll suck at it together.”
I snorted, then laughed for real.
We stayed that way for a long time, just two broken people, refusing to be alone.
Eventually, he shifted, tilting my chin up with a single finger. His eyes searched mine for something I didn’t even know I could give.
He kissed me.
Not the kind of kiss the movies trained you to expect: the desperate, all-consuming thing. No, this was slower, softer, a question mark pressed where my mouth should have been.
The heat of the fire flared up, painting every shadow gold, but all I could see was the flicker of his eyelashes and the way his hand trembled ever so slightly. I answered him with the same careful gentleness.
For the first time in a long time, I let myself lean in, not away.
I let myself want.
In that breathless, suspended moment, the old stories faded into the background.
The bruises and the broken promises, none of them belonged here.
Even the memory of Kyle, sharp as a broken bottle, dulled under the weight of this new gravity.
It was just us on the threadbare couch, knees knocking together, and the ancient fire snapping in the hearth like it approved.
When he finally pulled away, his eyes found mine, searching for the catch, waiting for the punchline.
I almost laughed at how serious he looked, but there was something about the way he hovered there, forehead pressed to mine, his breath coming ragged and real, that made the moment sacred instead of silly.
We sat like that, eyes closed, breathing the same air, letting the silence settle back in.
I felt the quiver in his shoulders, the way he fought his own instinct to retreat.
I wanted to tell him I understood. That every day, I woke up with the sense that I was already behind, already failing, already falling short.
Instead, I just let my hand drift to his, anchoring us both to the lumpy couch.
So much had been taken from me: my best friend, my future plans, even my own sense of who I was supposed to be.
But in this ridiculous, makeshift cabin, with a man who was more myth than fact and a son who saw both of us as something worth keeping, I felt the smallest flicker of belonging.
I held onto it with both hands, greedy for the warmth, because I knew how quickly these things disappeared.
We said nothing at all, and it was enough.
The crackle of the fire, the ticking of the clock, our uneven heartbeats, all of it combined into a quiet symphony of survival.
I willed myself to remember every detail: the calloused pad of Aiden’s thumb tracing the curve of my jaw, the taste of woodsmoke on his lips, the way his chest rose and fell in tandem with mine.
I would need this memory for when the world came crashing back in, demanding its due.