Page 85 of Dissonance

“You’re not,” I say again, pushing off the wall and crossing until I’m standing in front of her. Up close, I can see the shift in her: fingers twisting in her cardigan, gaze darting to mine then away.

“You didn’t buy this place for me to come in and”—she winces—“intrude.”

“No.” My brow furrows. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t belong here.”

Her eyes lift to mine, searching for the catch. There isn’t one. There never will be.

“Lockie…” There’s a warning. It’s soft, but it’s there.

I know what she’s trying to say. That this changes things, that there’s no easy way back from it. My hand lifts, knuckles ghosting along her jaw, feeling the exact moment her breath catches.

“You don’t have to make yourself smaller here,” I say. “Not for me. I want every thought, every idea that comes out of that amazing brain of yours. All of it.”

Her shoulders drop, the grip on her cardigan loosening like she hadn’t realized how tightly she was holding it.

“Lockie.” My name sounds different on her tongue when she’s like this, throatier, more of a rasp. I tilt my head, brushing my nose against hers, our breaths meeting in the space between us.

“I think—”

“You don’t have to think about anything right now,” I tell her, voice low.

“What am I supposed to do inste—?”

She stills, her body tensing as her hand drops to her stomach, eyes widening, gaze dropping down. Snatching my hand, she moves it around, concentration etching across her features as she—

“You felt that, right?” she breathes. “Tell me you did.”

I can’t speak, my hand staying exactly where she placed it, completely still, not wanting to miss it if it happens again. A second passes, then two, and I’m starting to think it’s the same as the last time we tried this, but then it happens, a barely-there whisper of movement from somewhere inside her. My throat closes, my eyes stinging in a way I haven’t felt since I was wee.

“Aye,” I manage, the word barely formed. “I felt it.”

Thea makes a sound that’s half-laugh, half-gasp, her hand coming to cover mine, both of us standing in the middle of my unfinished cabin, the stream running outside and the last of the light fading through the windows, laughing when she moves again.

“There’s my girl.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Lockie

This is what she needed. Lazy mornings, easy afternoons, slowing down and recharging after years of running at full speed. We’ve walked the trail behind the property twice, cooked dinner with her watching me from the old breakfast bar, sat on the porch steps listening to the stream. Small things, simple things, nothing that required a signal or the internet. Two things I neglected to tell her I didn’t have much of up here.

By the third evening, the fire’s going, warming up the cabin, the last of the day fading away through the tall window. She’s tucked herself into the corner of the sofa, legs covered by the tartan blanket, laptop open across her knees. A small frown pulls between her eyebrows as she scrolls, and I watch her from the other side of the couch, book in hand—open, but untouched—not reading a single word.

“Can I get you anything?” I ask, pulling her foot from under the blanket and pressing into the arch.

“No, I’m okay,” she says, not looking up. “Thanks.”

I wait, working my thumbs in slow circles, not taking my eyes off her. “Want me to run you a bath?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Thea?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be relaxing?”

“I am relaxing,” she says, chewing on her lower lip, staring at the screen, two lines appearing between her eyebrows.