CHAPTER 9.
901 Words
Alan sat in the dim cottage, elbows balanced on his knees, his head bowed. He had been there since morning, doing nothing but listening to the sound of his own guilt circling like a tide that refused to pull back.
He had almost gone to her once. Twice, even. He had walked as far as the bend in the lane, boots slick from the damp ground, before turning back. Each time, it was the memory that stopped him. The look in her eyes yesterday, not sharp but startled, the way hurt had flickered there before she covered it.
He had raised his voice. He had let her see a part of him he’d tried to keep buried.
And now, the silence felt like punishment.
By the time the sun tilted low in the sky, Alan couldn’t stand it anymore. He pulled on his coat and went, though every step felt like it might betray him.
---
The knock startled me, though I’d half expected it all day.
The morning had been long, heavy with the weight of what hadn’t been said. I tried reading, cleaning, even humming to fill the silence, but nothing cut through the restless thrum in my chest. In the end, I’d ended up at the counter, sorting berries with more force than necessary, their skins breaking under my fingers.
When the sound finally came at the door, my heart jolted. But my body stayed slow, as I went to open it.
Alan stood there, steady as ever, though something about his posture seemed strained, as though he was holding too tightly to stillness.
I folded my arms, exhaustion seeping through me. “What do you want, Alan?”
My voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t angry. It was tired, worn thin, the kind of tone that said I didn’t have energy for another fight.
He looked at me, jaw tight, then down at the ground. Silence stretched, long enough for me to wonder if he would answer at all.
Finally, he said, “I shouldn’t have…” His voice caught, low. He swallowed. “I shouldn't have raised my voice.”
It wasn’t much, definitely not the apology I’d wanted. But it was something. A rough edge of truth he hadn’t sanded down.
I let out a breath, pressing my lips together. “Okay.”
The quiet that followed pressed in, thick. For a moment, I thought he might leave. He shifted, as if to turn away, before his gaze snagged on the counter behind me — the bowls of berries I hadn’t touched since morning.
“You haven’t used them yet,” he said.
I glanced back at them. “No. Haven’t had much of an appetite.”
His eyes flickered, unreadable, before he said, almost cautiously, “We could… make pies. If you want.”
I almost laughed, the sound sharp in my throat. Pies. After yesterday. After all that. But the way he said it...
I hesitated, then stepped back from the door. “Fine. But you’re the one doing the rolling. mine comes out...Weird.”
A flicker of relief crossed his face before he came inside.
---
At first, it was awkward. The air thick with all the things we hadn’t said. Alan worked in silence, measuring sugar with precision, while I hovered, folding my arms, uncertain if this counted as forgiveness or just distraction.
“You’re awfully serious about this,” I said finally, if only to fill the space.
“I'm trying to prevent a disaster,” he replied, eyes fixed on the bowl.
“It’s pie.”
“And yours looks like it’s already been dropped.”
Despite myself, a small laugh escaped. “It’s rustic.”
“Tragic,” he corrected.
I flicked flour at him without thinking. His brow arched, the faintest c***k in his guarded expression. “Assault,” he said dryly, brushing off his shirt.
The tension eased, just a little.
---
By the time the pies were in the oven, the cottage smelled warm and sweet, though the silence still had weight to it. I leaned against the table, watching Alan fold a towel too carefully.
“You’re quiet,” I said softly.
He looked at me briefly. “Some things are better left unsaid.”
The words pulled at me, making my chest ache. I wanted to press, to push past the wall he kept so firmly in place. But yesterday lingered too sharply between us. So I only nodded, letting the question fall.
---
When the pies were ready, we cut into one. The crust cracked, the filling spilled, but the taste was sharp and good.
“Rustic,” I said.
Alan’s mouth twitched. “Tragic.”
For a moment, laughter settled between us again, easier than I thought it would.
---
Later, when Alan stood at the door to leave, the light had faded to a soft gold. He lingered, his voice quiet.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For letting me stay,” he said simply.
And then he was gone, the cottage still carrying the scent of berries, the warmth of the oven fading slowly into silence.
I sat back at the table, staring at the half-eaten pie.
He was trying harder not to let me in, and I wasn’t sure how long I could stand at the edge of whatever it was he kept so carefully guarded.
- Writer
