Cyrus
Chapter forty-seven
Cabin Fever
The porch swing creaks under our weight, slow and uneven, like it’s thinking about giving out if we push it one more time. Morning has fully settled in now—bright enough to make it feel like this mess belongs to someone else.
Fallon sits beside me, knees drawn up, wearing my flannel.
The one I left here the night of the storm.
It hangs off her like it was made for her, and I hate how much that does it for me.
Her in my clothes, is distracting. I clear my throat, looking out at the yard instead of her.
“You’re aware I’m trying to have a serious mental breakdown about our entire life situation right now, right? ”
She glances at me. “I can see that. You’re doing great. Keep going.”
A short laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. “Yeah, well. Not helping.”
She shifts slightly, the sleeve sliding down her hand. My flannel on her. My cologne on her skin.
I let my eyes linger a second too long before I catch myself. “…That,” I say, nodding at her, “is not helping either.”
Her brow furrows. “What?”
I tilt my head toward her. “You. In my shirt.”
A pause.
Then she looks down at herself like she forgot what she was wearing. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Oh.” She tries to look unaffected. Fails immediately.
I drag a hand down my face. “Even with everything going on—media circus, headlines, the mayor up my ass—seeing you like that is doing things to me that are deeply inappropriate for a man under public attack. The next photo of me plastered online is going to be me sporting a fucking boner.”
That finally gets a real reaction out of her. A small, disbelieving laugh. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Should I go change into a potato sack?”
“No,” I answer too fast. Her eyes flick to mine. I exhale. “No. Don’t do that.” The swing rocks slightly as she shifts toward me, studying my face now.
“Okay,” she says carefully. “Then what are we doing, Cyrus?” I don’t answer right away.
Because that’s the question underneath all of it. Not the news. Not the fallout. Not the noise. I turn toward her fully. Taking in her puffy eyes and slight frown. “Are you still in this with me?”
Her expression tightens slightly. “That’s your question?”
“It’s my only question that matters right now.”
She watches me for a long second, like she’s deciding whether to answer gently or honestly. “Let me ask you one first,” she says.
I nod once. “Okay.”
Her voice softens, but it doesn’t lose its edge. “Do you think you can be with me through all of this? Through them turning everything we touch into something ugly?”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Yeah,” I say simply. “I do.” Her breath catches just slightly. I continue, quieter now. “But I’m not doing it halfway. Not in pieces. Not from a distance.”
She swallows. “Neither am I.”
A beat passes between us. Then I say it, “We need space. Real space. Not here.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “The cabin.”
I nod. “The cabin.”
She studies me. “How long?”
“A few days,” I say. “Maybe a week. Enough to get the noise out of our heads.”
“And the kids?” she asks.
“They’ll think it’s an adventure,” I say. “They always do.”
That earns a small, tired smile from her. Then she looks out at the yard. “People are going to talk more while we’re gone.”
“Let them,” I say.
She looks back at me. “And when we come back?”
“That’s the part we’ll figure out while we’re there,” I answer.
Silence settles again, but it feels different now. Less like pressure. More like decision. Fallon shifts closer on the swing, her shoulder brushing mine.
“Okay,” she says quietly. “Cabin for a few days.”
I nod. “Yeah.” Another beat.
Then she adds, softer, “And Cyrus?”
I glance at her. “Yeah?”
Her eyes hold mine this time. “Don’t make me regret choosing you in the middle of all this.”
I reach up, brushing a strand of hair from her face, my hand lingering just long enough to feel her there. “I’m not the part of this you’re going to regret,” I say.
Her breath hitches slightly. And then I kiss her. It’s not rushed. Not desperate. Just real. Like everything we haven’t been saying finally decided to stop waiting for permission. When I pull back, she stays close for a second longer than necessary.
Good.
“Pack a bag,” I murmur.
She nods once. “Already have a feeling the kids are going to pack like we’re fleeing the country.”
I huff a laugh. “Honestly? We should probably take the truck so we can fit all of their stuff.”
She stands first, still wearing my flannel. And I let myself look at her a little longer than I should. Because even with everything falling apart around us—her and the kids are the only thing I’m worried about.