Three
1185 Words
Emma:
For a long second, neither of us moved.
Kaden stood there in the half-light of the hallway—broad shoulders tense, jaw carved from stone, eyes flicking from my hand to my face as if he could see the truth through skin. Through silence.
I felt… exposed.
Not because of the bruise.
Not because of the blanket slipping off my shoulder.
But because of the way he looked at me.
Like he already knew.
“I shouldn’t have come out,” I whispered, gripping the blanket tighter. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Emma.” His voice was quiet, but it didn’t leave room for escape. “Come to the kitchen.”
I should’ve said no.
I should’ve gone back to the guest room and curled under the quilt and pretended none of this was happening.
But my feet moved anyway.
I followed him.
The kitchen was dim except for the warm under-cabinet glow and the soft blinking of Christmas lights from the lounge area. It wasn’t a perfect room—mismatched mugs, papers stacked near the coffee maker, a half-eaten plate of cookies—but it felt lived-in. Safe.
He moved with a quiet efficiency, opening cabinets, pulling down a mug, filling the kettle. He didn’t hover. He didn’t interrogate.
He just… existed near me.
And somehow, that was enough to make the knot in my throat tighten.
When the kettle clicked on, he finally spoke.
“You don’t have to tell me anything,” he said, turning to face me fully, bracing his hands on the counter behind him. “Not tonight. Not ever, if you don’t want to.”
My fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket.
“But if someone hurt you—really hurt you—I'm not letting you go back to that.”
A slow breath slipped out of me. It came out shaky, more vulnerable than I meant it to. “I didn’t come here for help.”
“No,” he said. “But you needed it.”
His eyes were steady. Dark. Watching me like every flicker of my expression meant something.
“Everyone needs help sometimes,” he added quietly.
Those words shouldn’t have hit as hard as they did.
I swallowed, looking down at Avery’s stuffed fox still clasped in my hand. “I left because I had to. Not because I was brave enough.”
Kaden’s voice lowered, softer than the snow tapping the windows. “Leaving is braver than staying and breaking.”
I didn’t realize my eyes were burning until a tear fell—warm against my cold cheek.
I wiped it quickly. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” His tone sharpened, not at me, but at the world. “Someone taught you to shrink yourself. To disappear. That’s not on you.”
The kettle clicked off.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Until he pushed off the counter and reached for the mug, pouring hot water over the tea bag. He slid the cup toward me, fingers brushing mine—barely a touch, but enough to send a warm spark all the way up my spine.
“Drink,” he murmured.
I did.
Chamomile and honey. Gentle. Calming.
“Is Avery… okay?” I asked after a moment, voice still unsteady. “She looked scared when she woke up.”
His expression softened instantly, a warmth that melted through the edges of him. “She had a rough holiday last year. This time of year… it’s complicated.”
I nodded, something inside me tightening in understanding. “I didn’t mean to worry her.”
“You didn’t.” He paused, then added, “She liked you.”
A strange flutter moved in my chest. “She’s sweet. And brave.”
Kaden’s eyes softened. “She is.”
Silence stretched between us—not heavy, just full. Charged with something neither of us had the courage to name yet.
“I didn’t expect tonight,” I admitted. “Any of this. You. Avery. The firehouse.” A soft laugh escaped me. “Christmas Eve in a storm with a firefighter who barely knows me but somehow feels safer than home ever did.”
His jaw flexed.
“Emma.” He stepped forward, slow, careful, like approaching a wounded animal. “You are safe here. Not because you owe me anything. Not because you’re stuck.” His voice dropped lower, thicker. “But because I won’t let anything hurt you while you’re under my roof.”
Something inside me cracked at that—quietly, but unmistakably.
“I shouldn’t feel relieved,” I whispered.
“You should,” he said. “You really should.”
Before I could respond, soft footsteps padded down the hallway.
Avery.
She appeared in the doorway, hair a wild halo, her fuzzy pajamas dragging at the cuffs. She rubbed her eyes. “Daddy?”
Kaden crouched instantly. “Hey. Bad dream?”
She nodded, then spotted me and hesitated. She clutched the doorframe for a moment… then walked straight toward me.
“Can I sit?” she asked, pointing to the chair beside me.
“Of course,” I said softly.
She climbed onto the chair, leaning her small shoulder into mine like it was natural. Like she had decided I wasn’t scary. Like I was… safe, too.
Kaden watched, something complicated passing over his face.
Avery yawned. “You didn’t have a blanket.”
My heart clenched. “I borrowed your fox instead.”
She nodded solemnly, then rested her head on my arm.
Kaden cleared his throat softly. “Bug. Want me to tuck you in again?”
“No.” She shook her head sleepily. “Can Emma?”
My breath caught.
Kaden froze.
And Avery just looked up at me with wide, trusting eyes—no hesitation, no doubt.
“Only if it’s okay,” I said gently, glancing at him.
He exhaled slowly. “Yeah,” he said finally, voice quiet. “It’s okay.”
Kaden:
Watching Avery’s small hand slip into Emma’s was a feeling I didn’t have a name for.
Dangerous, maybe.
Hopeful, definitely.
Something deep in my chest shifted, unfamiliar and warm and terrifying.
This was supposed to be one night.
A stranger needing shelter.
A storm forcing my hand.
But as Emma knelt beside Avery’s bed and tucked the blanket around her tiny shoulders… as she smoothed back her hair and whispered something soft that made my daughter smile in her sleep…
I knew the truth:
This wasn’t going to be simple.
And it sure as hell wasn’t going to be temporary.
When Emma stepped back into the hallway, she looked up at me, uncertain again, like she wasn’t sure she hadn’t crossed some line.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said quietly.
“I wanted to,” she replied, just as quiet.
Something flickered between us.
A spark.
A promise.
A pull.
And when her fingers brushed mine on the way back toward the kitchen—barely a touch, barely anything at all—
It felt like everything.
- Writer
