Chapter Thirty-Seven #3
The window is stuck again, like it’s judging me.
I ease it up, millimeter by millimeter, until the swollen frame finally gives with a soft, reluctant groan.
Warm air is spilling over my hands. I pause, count three heartbeats, listen for any sign that I’ve just blown my own cover.
Nothing. Just the distant hum of the fridge, the low tick of cooling pipes, the cabin settling like an older man with bad knees.
I swing one leg over the sill, then the other, careful not to let my boots thump against the floor.
For a second, I’m balanced there. Half in, half out, night at my back and the familiar dark of the room in front of me.
Then I drop lightly to the rug. It smells like us in here—soap, sweat, damp wood, the faint scent of the chapel.
The curtains are mostly drawn, letting in just enough light to sketch the outlines: the dresser, chair, the bed… Sterling.
Sterling is sprawled across the bed sideways.
One arm flung over his eyes, the other curled loose near my pillow.
The blanket is a casualty on the far side of the mattress, half on the floor.
Standing there, cold air flows into the room as I watch the slow rise and fall of his chest. My chest does something traitorous and soft as the marks between us hum under my skin like they’re checking in now that we’re in the same space again.
“Congratulations,” I whisper under my breath.
“You’re not the only thing trying to take up permanent residency. ”
Sterling shifts just enough that the mattress creaks, his arm slipping a fraction to reveal the edge of his eyes. “I knew you’d pick the window,” he says, voice rough with sleep. “The door would’ve been easier.”
I freeze, then roll my shoulders like I meant to get caught. “Front doors are for people who don’t have reputations to keep intact.” I wink with a small laugh
“You were gone forty-seven minutes,” Sterling huffs, with an almost humored sound. “That must have been the best sleep of the year.”
“Yep, guess it actually transported me to somewhere else,” I shrug.
Sterling drops his arm the rest of the way and looks at me. Even in the low light, I can see the worry etched into his face. The room suddenly feels smaller than the doctor’s bathroom. “You okay?” he asks. A simple question, but also a loaded gun.
I shrug out of my jacket, draping it over the back of the chair like my entire life didn’t just tilt off its axis. “Define okay,” I say.
Sterling watches me cross the room, every step cataloged. “The kind where you tell me what’s really going on.”
“Then I’m fine. I just needed a breather.”
Sterling’s brow creases, the way it does when he hits a data point that doesn’t match the rest of the pattern. “You climbed in a window,” he says slowly. “At night. While we’re supposed to be playing house and behaving…You don’t do that when you’re fine.”
“You do when you don’t want to answer the questions,” I counter. “And I get to skip the part where we both pretend you’re not hovering over me.” I move to the bed, sitting on the far edge, my back to the headboard, the mattress dipping, tilting me a little toward him. Gravity is rude.
Sterling notices the gap. “Kiera.” My name sounds like a warning, a question, and a plea all braided together. “What happened?”
“Found out I really hate chamomile.” I shrug. “Life-changing revelation.”
Sterling’s eyes narrow. “How about you try again?”
I feel his gaze land on me. “Sterling, not everything is a crisis,” I say quietly. “Sometimes I just need… air.”
“You went out a window into the rain to get air,” he says. “Forgive me if my crisis meter starts ticking.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?” I ask, dodging his looks. “You look like you lost a fight with that pillow.”
“Couldn’t sleep. Kept waiting for your dream to bring you back.” Sarcasm drips from his tone.
I look away, toward the dark square of the window.
There are three truths in my pocket, jangling like stolen keys—I left, came back, and I’m not ready to tell him why.
“I’m here,” I say, finally. It’s not an answer, but it’s something.
“No Nesting House goons. No chapel demons. No fresh bullet holes. That’s got to count for a partial win. ”
Sterling studies me, like he’s trying to decide whether to push or let me keep my illusion of privacy for one more night. “Come here,” he says at last, shifting to make room. The simplest trap and the safest one.
For a second, I stay where I am, fingers knotting in the blanket between us.
If I climb into that space, I’m going to have to lie with my whole body, not just my mouth, and pretend the only thing hammering under my ribs is adrenaline.
Later's problem, I remind myself. Right now, I still get to choose what I say out loud.
The mattress dips further as I slide in beside Sterling, his warmth bleeding into my chilled skin. His arm comes around my shoulders automatically, like gravity again—anchoring and dangerous all at once. He presses his mouth to my hair. “You sure you’re okay?” he murmurs one last time.
I breathe in, breathe out, and tuck the truth deeper down where he can’t see it yet. “Yeah,” I lie, quietly and completely. “I’m sure.”