Twelve
1098 Words
Emma
I didn’t remember standing up.
Or gathering Avery into my arms.
Or following Kaden out the firehouse door.
Everything after “Let me take you both home” felt dreamlike — slow, hushed, wrapped in that fragile trust that threaded itself between us.
The night air was cold, but not the shivering kind. The quiet kind. The kind that made the world feel small and private, like the three of us were moving through a moment nobody else had the right to witness.
Kaden walked beside me, close enough that if I swayed, his arm would catch me. He didn’t touch me — I don’t think he trusted himself to — but every time I glanced at him, the same thought flickered through my mind:
He’s watching us the way people watch miracles.
The drive was short. Barely ten minutes. Avery slept the entire way, her head on my lap, tiny hand still curled around my wrist like she’d been born knowing exactly where to hold on.
Kaden’s cabin came into view slowly, tucked behind pines and sloping rock. It looked… small. Peaceful. A place that had been lived in by a man who didn’t take up as much space as he deserved.
He parked, cut the engine, and turned to me.
“You okay to carry her?” he asked softly.
I nodded. But he still hovered, one hand offered, just in case my ribs pulled or my balance slipped.
I stepped out carefully, Avery clinging instinctively, and Kaden locked the truck before leading us to the cabin.
He held the door for me. Not politely. Not performatively. Protectively. As though opening this door meant opening something else too — something heavier.
The cabin was warm. Not in décor. Not in clutter. Warm in the way the air felt. Lived-in. Safe. Quiet.
One main room with a couch, a wood-burning stove, shelves full of old paperbacks and worn work gloves, and a tiny kitchen tucked in the corner.
Two doors.
And I knew immediately one was his bedroom.
The other would be… whatever he did with it.
He watched me take it all in, chest rising and falling too slowly, like he was waiting for a verdict.
“This is it,” he said quietly. “It’s not much.”
“It’s perfect,” I whispered.
Something flickered in his eyes. Something soft. Something dangerous.
He moved past me, pushing open the first door — his room. He flicked on a small lamp. And just like that, the private space of Kaden Hale unfolded in front of me.
The bed. The dresser. The books stacked on the floor instead of shelves. A faded blanket. A jacket hanging from the bedpost.
A small room. A small life. But somehow it felt bigger just by standing in it.
“You can take the bed,” he said immediately.
I blinked. “Kaden—”
“I’ll take the couch.”
“Your couch is five feet long.”
“I’ve slept on worse.”
He said it like a fact. A truth carved from experience. And God, it made my chest ache.
“Kaden,” I whispered, “I’m not taking your bed.”
“You are.”
His voice deepened, not harsh, just firm. Solid. Immovable.
“You’re hurt,” he added, his gaze dipping to my ribs, then to the child in my arms. “She needs a real bed. You need rest. This is non-negotiable.”
“But—”
“Emma.”
He stepped closer, hands at his sides, jaw tight.
“If you stay on the couch, I am not sleeping. I’m going to sit there all night watching you breathe like an insane person. Please. Just take the room.”
Oh.
Oh, he wasn’t doing this out of politeness.
He was doing this because the alternative would wreck him.
I swallowed, feeling that truth settle deep. “…Okay,” I whispered.
The breath he let out was almost silent — but definitely relief.
He nodded once, brisk but gentle, and reached toward Avery.
“Let me take her,” he murmured.
I didn’t argue. I couldn’t. His hands slid under her small body with impossible care, and she melted into him instantly, cheek against his shoulder, tiny fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt.
“She’s okay,” he murmured to me. “I’ve got her.”
He did. God, he did.
He carried her toward the other door, the one I hadn’t paid attention to before.
Avery’s room.
Small. Simple. Sweet in a way that made my throat tighten. A twin bed with mismatched blankets. A little shelf with picture books. A crooked stuffed fox perched on a pillow. A space he had made. For her. Long before tonight.
Kaden lowered her gently onto the pillow, adjusting her head, smoothing her hair from her forehead. The softness in his eyes… it made my chest ache.
“Goodnight, little bean,” he whispered so quietly it felt like a secret.
Avery exhaled, content, sinking into the blankets like this was home.
He pulled the covers up to her chin, tucking the edges around her just the way she liked. Then he stood there, watching her breathe, lingering in that pause between her settling and the world intruding.
Finally, he stepped out first, waiting until I followed, and then gently closed the door behind him. Not tight. Not fully sealed. Just enough to keep the warmth in. Just enough to say she’s safe.
Then he opened his own door.
Not wide. Not dramatically. Just enough for the soft lamp light to spill across the hallway. Enough to make it clear this wasn’t a mistake or an accident.
“Emma,” he said quietly. “Come here.”
My pulse tripped.
Because his voice wasn’t rough. Or commanding. Or careful.
It was something else entirely.
Honest. Wanting. The voice of a man who had finally given up pretending he didn’t want to be close.
I stepped toward him before I could think. Before I could doubt. Before I could remember all the reasons this was dangerous.
He moved back, letting me in, his gaze tracking every inch like I was something he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch.
And for the first time all night — maybe for the first time since I’d met him — the door behind us stayed open only an inch.
Not for caution. Not because he needed space. But because Avery was asleep on the other side. And because Kaden wasn’t closing the door on either of us.
- Writer
