Page 99 of Break Me

When the plates are cleared and the check arrives, he reaches for it without looking at me, same as always.

Outside, he kisses my cheek, squeezes my shoulder, and steps back like he’s still learning where the lines are. Then he swings a leg over the bike, settles his weight, and brings it to life with a familiar rumble.

I stand there and watch as he pulls away from the curb and disappears down the road, the sound fading until it’s just another part of the town again.

Turning, I walk down the sidewalk to the small market and grab a few groceries for the cottage. On the way back to my car, I walk by the antique store and spot a small lamp in the window.

The bell over the door chimes as I step in. The woman behind the counter looks up from a stack of newspapers and smiles like she’s been expecting someone.

“Morning,” she says.

“Morning,” I reply, drifting toward the window. Up close, the lamp is even better. The base is worn smooth in places, the shade soft with age. It tells of a well-loved life lived before it found me.

“Came in yesterday,” the woman says. “I didn’t think it’d last the day.”

I can see why,” I say, turning it slightly, imagining it sitting on the nightstand next to our bed.

She rings it up without comment, wraps the cord carefully, and slides it across the counter. “That one’ll warm a place up,” she says, like it’s a fact.

“I think so too.”

Outside again, I cradle the lamp against my side as I make my way to the car. By the time I reach it, a sudden heaviness settles over me, enough that I stop beside the driver's door. I set the bags on the ground and leave one hand resting against the car, closing my eyes for a slow, steady breath.

Too much time in town, I tell myself. I've gotten used to the quiet of the woods.

After a moment, I load everything into the car, slide behind the wheel, and pull the door shut.

I'm nearly halfway home when I remember the milk. For a second, I consider turning around. The thought alone feels exhausting.

Tomorrow, I decide.

The milk can wait.

Raven

Cooking dinner has become my favorite part of the day.

Water runs over the vegetables in the sink—squash and onions from the garden, their skins still carrying traces of this morning's dirt, a handful of kale darkened by the cooler nights. Chicken sizzles in the pan while I chop everything slowly, enjoying the familiar rhythm of it.

By the time dinner is nearly finished, the table is already set. Two plates. Silverware lined up. His favorite glass is placed where he always sits.

Sam doesn’t expect dinner to be waiting for him. I do it because I love the moment he walks through the door. Because for the first time in my life, someone is coming home to me.

I smile to myself as I stir the vegetables, but the feeling doesn't last. The smell should make my stomach growl. Instead, a wave of nausea catches me off guard. It passes almost as quickly as it came, leaving me standing there with the wooden spoon in my hand, wondering what that was.

The front door opens before I can think much more about it.

Boots against the wood floor.

The sound loosens something tight inside my chest before I even turn around.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I answer, smiling as he crosses the kitchen in a few easy strides and kisses me, slow and unhurried, his hand warm at my waist.

“Smells good.”

“I was hoping you’d think so.”