The line doesn’t announce itself when it finally gives way, which feels fitting given how carefully we’ve both been pretending it still exists, and if I’m honest with myself, I know exactly when it happens, even if I don’t stop it. It’s not the first touch or the first look or even the first moment we stand too close for too long, because we’ve done all of that already and called it restraint, but something shifts tonight in a quieter, more decisive way that feels less like temptation and more like surrender.
The packhouse is settled again, not relaxed, not truly safe, but stable enough that the tension has softened into something livable, and after dinner we retreat upstairs without comment, our steps falling into sync the way they always do now. The corridor is dim and quiet, stone wall
