CHAPTER 7.
1040 Words
The next morning, the sky was pale and washed-out, the kind of light that made the town feel suspended between sleep and wakefulness. I woke early, restless, half-thinking about Alan even before I opened my eyes.
By habit, I made tea and stood by the window with the mug in my hands, staring toward the path that led to the sea. I told myself I wasn’t waiting. Just… watching.
But when he didn’t appear again, the excuse felt thin.
By late morning I gave in and walked to his place, knocking softly on the blue door.
It took longer this time, but eventually it opened, just a c***k at first. Alan stood there looking slightly better than yesterday — still pale, but not as drained. His hair was damp, as if he’d just splashed water on his face, and he wore a loose shirt that made him look less composed than usual.
“Elaina,” he said, voice still rough.
“You’re upright,” I replied. “That’s progress.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “I told you, it wasn’t serious.”
“Right,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Because passing out on a sofa screams healthy.”
He leaned against the frame, studying me. “You worry too much.”
“I’ve heard that before,” I said. “Maybe it’s true. Or maybe you give me reason to.”
For a moment, silence stretched. Then he stepped back, opening the door wider. “Do you want to come in?”
---
The cottage felt the same as yesterday, dim but steady, smelling faintly of salt and something herbal. The blanket I’d tucked over him still lay rumpled on the sofa.
He moved slowly, like he was pacing himself, and I hovered close enough to catch him if he swayed. He noticed, of course — he always noticed.
“You don’t have to hover,” he said, settling into the chair.
“And yet here I am,” I replied, folding my arms.
He gave me a look, amused despite himself. “Stubborn.”
“Call it determined.”
I let the pause linger before asking, “Do you feel up for going out?”
He raised a brow. “And where would you take me, exactly?”
I thought quickly. “There’s a grove just outside town. Someone mentioned berries grow wild there this time of year.”
Alan tilted his head, considering. “Berry-picking.”
“Yes,” I said firmly. “Low effort, high reward. You pick, you eat, maybe make some pies too.”
His laugh was quiet, but it warmed the room. “Fine. Berry-picking.”
---
The path wound away from town, lined with tall grasses still damp from yesterday’s storm. The air smelled fresh, the kind that only comes after rain. Alan walked beside me, steady, though I caught the slight stiffness in his stride.
“Now I wonder if you should be doing this” I asked, half-teasing, half-genuine.
He glanced at me. “I’ll survive.”
“...Okay. Nothing like berry-picking to test a man’s endurance.”
That earned me another rare grin, one that lingered long enough to make me look away, pretending to fuss with the strap of my bag.
The grove appeared after a short while, tucked into a dip in the land where the soil stayed rich. Bushes stretched in clusters, dotted with dark berries, their leaves glistening faintly with leftover rain.
I crouched and plucked one, inspecting it carefully before popping it into my mouth. “Sweet,” I announced, holding out a handful toward him.
Alan accepted one, eating it slowly, as if tasting it more deliberately than I had. “Not bad.”
“High praise,” I said.
We settled into an easy rhythm, moving through the grove, fingers stained faintly with juice. At one point, my foot caught on a root hidden beneath the grass. I stumbled, arms flailing, and Alan’s hand shot out, steadying me with quick precision.
“Graceful,” he murmured.
I groaned. “Not you too. The seaweed incident was bad enough.”
His grip lingered a second longer than necessary before he let go. “I’m starting to think the danger isn’t in storms or fevers. It’s in you walking on uneven ground.”
“Funny,” I muttered, cheeks warm.
---
We collected berries in silence for a while, the quiet broken only by the rustle of leaves. Eventually, I said, “You never told me much about where you grew up.”
Alan paused, plucking another berry. “I moved around. A coastal town. Then a city. Then here.”
“You make it sound like places more than homes,” I said softly.
His hand stilled briefly before he tucked the berry into his palm. “Maybe that’s all they were.”
Something in his tone made me glance at him, but his expression was unreadable, his gaze fixed on the bushes.
I wanted to ask more, but the words caught in my throat. Instead, I let the silence stretch, filling it with the sound of birds overhead.
---
By the time we walked back, our baskets half-filled, the sun had dipped lower, painting the horizon in pale gold. Alan’s stride was easier now, his color slightly better, though I suspected it was more stubbornness than recovery.
When we reached the lane that split toward our cottages, he stopped.
“Thank you,” he said simply.
“For what?” I asked.
He looked at me, eyes steady. “For today. For not… leaving me to myself.”
The words were quiet, but they landed heavier than they should have.
I forced a lightness into my voice. “Well, someone had to make sure you didn’t waste away before berry season was over.”
Alan smiled faintly, and this time I didn’t look away.
“See you tomorrow?” I asked before I could second-guess it.
His pause was brief, but noticeable. Then he nodded. “Tomorrow.”
I walked back to my cottage with the basket swinging in my hand, the berries sweet on my tongue, and the echo of his words lingering longer than they should have.
- Writer
