Chapter 11 Krista
KRISTA
The night tastes like woodsmoke and rain that never quite arrives.
It’s cool but not cold, the air damp and still holding the weight of something that hasn’t broken yet, and I find myself barefoot on the porch long after Mari’s gone to bed.
The floorboards are warm from the day’s sun, and I curl my toes into the old wood as if the house might hold me steady if I just touch it hard enough.
I’m tired in a way that no sleep can fix.
Not the kind of tired that comes from work or from worry, but the bone-deep weariness that follows when you’ve been trying to be brave for too long, when you keep smiling because you think the people around you need it more than you do, and you’ve forgotten what your face looks like when you’re not pretending everything’s fine.
The garden is dark but not silent. Crickets hum like a lullaby meant for something older than people, and the trees sway like they’re listening.
I know this feeling. It’s the one that always used to settle in around midnight back in the old apartment, when Michael was out and the silence stopped pretending it was peaceful.
It’s the moment the mask starts slipping, even when no one’s watching.
Hardin steps onto the porch without a sound.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t announce himself or ask if he can stay.
Just walks up beside me and stands there, quiet and heavy in that way he has, like a thunderstorm right before the crack.
He smells like pine smoke and metal and something warmer beneath it, something steady.
His presence doesn’t ask permission. But it never pushes either.
“I didn’t hear you come up,” I say, not looking at him.
“You were somewhere else.”
I nod, watching the trees. “I usually am, these days.”
He doesn’t press. He just waits.
The wind stirs the edge of my sweater, and I wrap it tighter around myself like it might hold in more than heat.
“You ever spend so long pretending something didn’t hurt that you almost forgot it did?” I ask, voice quiet, almost to myself.
Hardin doesn’t move, but I feel his attention settle sharper on me.
“I used to think Michael wasn’t cruel,” I say. “That I was just sensitive. That maybe I was too needy or too tired or not graceful enough in the ways he needed me to be. He never raised his voice. Never hit. He just… peeled me back, one word at a time.”
Hardin says nothing, and I keep going.
“He’d make everything sound so reasonable. Like he was helping. Like he just wanted me to be better. A better mom. A better wife. A better everything. He’d say I was too emotional, too defensive, too intense. He’d call it concern. Or guidance. Or love. And I’d swallow it. Every single time.”
I don’t realize I’m crying until my voice catches. I wipe my cheek roughly, angry at the salt on my skin.
“I left because of Mari. Not because I suddenly grew a spine. Not because I saw the truth. Just because he started turning that tone on her. And I couldn’t unhear it once it happened.
I packed our lives into four boxes, left while he was at work, and drove until I couldn’t feel the weight of him in the air. ”
Hardin still hasn’t said anything, but he’s stepped closer. Close enough that I can feel his heat now, not just his presence. It curls around me like a shield.
“I thought she’d be safe here,” I whisper. “I thought I was keeping her safe. But now there’s magic and marks on her skin and old secrets I don’t understand, and I feel like the ground’s shifting every time I find my footing.”
“You are keeping her safe,” he says, voice low and rough. “You’re fighting harder than most would’ve dared.”
I shake my head. “I’m flailing. I’m reading spells like bedtime stories and hoping my blood knows what the hell it’s doing.”
He turns toward me slowly, and I glance up, startled to find his eyes already on mine.
“You’re standing in the fire,” he says. “Not running from it. That counts.”
The air stills between us, and something thick settles in the silence. Not awkward. Not uncertain. Just full.
I reach out, fingers brushing the back of his hand where it rests on the railing. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. His skin is warm and calloused, and I press my palm flat against it, grounding myself there.
“I think I forgot what it felt like,” I say.
“What?”
“To be seen.”
He looks at me then, really looks, and the quiet between us grows sharp.
“I see you,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that makes my breath catch.
I shift toward him, just slightly, just enough to bring our bodies into each other’s gravity. My heart thuds louder than it should. I can’t remember the last time I wanted to lean in this much without bracing for pain.
Hardin watches me. His jaw clenches. His hand curls gently around mine, and I feel the way he holds still. Not because he’s unsure, but because he’s sure, and he’s waiting for me to choose.
So I lean closer, until we’re only a breath apart.
But then I stop.
Because I’m not ready for more. Not tonight. Not yet.
He doesn’t step back. He doesn’t move at all. He just stays there, letting me have the moment.
And then, slowly, I press my forehead to his chest, let my body fold into his, and feel his arms wrap around me with the kind of care that doesn’t demand anything in return.
I stay there longer than I mean to. I don’t want to leave the space between us. Not when it finally feels like something real.
When I do pull back, he lets me go with quiet grace, hands falling to his sides.
“Thank you,” I say.
He nods.
Then he turns, walks back into the night, and leaves the warmth of his touch behind like an ember I’m not ready to put out.