Page 114 of Bound

Not that she ever said it at all. He was always the first to suggest his retreat, the first to give his goodbyes. Never wanted to overstay, he said. With a gentle smile that suggested he didn’t resent her for it, didn’t mind that she was often relieved. Then sad. Then sorry.

Over and over. Too many feelings, too much conflict.

Except when they sat. And rocked. And were quiet.

He relaxed into his chair, and the rocking resumed. The rhythmic sound of wound against wood, the breeze that rustled the tree that had become to feel a little too much like theirs.

“What did you mean to say?” Braum prompted eventually, when her nerves threatened to choke her, when she regretted having tried to say anything at all.

He reached out to her. Pulled her fingers away from her braid. “No need to tug. We are only talking.”

A noise escaped her. Not a squeak, not a groan, but somewhere in between. “That’s the trouble,” she groused, because it was. Always. It could be something innocuous. Or it could mean a family was falling apart.

And a thousand in betweens.

“Is it?” Braum asked, a hint of a smile in his voice. “Kessa does not share that trouble. I will admit. This is a more peaceful way to live, comparatively.” He was still holding onto her fingers, his thumb drifting over the tips thoughtfully. It had no business making her insides squirm so fiercely. “And as much as I enjoy the quiet, I do not like that you’re afraid of talking with me. Telling me what you think.” His head tilted ever so slightly. “You are certain you were not going to tell me to leave?”

Her cheeks flushed, and she shook her head slowly. “No.”

His smile warmed. “Well. Then. We’ve already eliminated the worst of it, haven’t we?”

She very nearly rolled her eyes if that was the worst outcome he could conjure.

“I’m not used to it, I think. I was... once. When Mama was here and we just... talked all day. Or didn’t. And either felt natural.”

He nodded as she spoke, and he still held her fingers captive.

Not exactly. She could easily pull them away if she wanted to. Which she did. Or... should.

“But this doesn’t?” he prompted when she stalled, her attention on their joined hands.

He gave her fingers a squeeze when she didn’t answer him. An encouragement? Or maybe a comfort. That she didn’t have to respond if she didn’t want to. But wasn’t that what troubled her? How little she gave him, how staunchly she held to her refusals of... most everything he offered. “Maybe,” she hedged.

And still, she did not pull away.

Braum hummed, and there was a hint of amusement that had not faded, and she longed to be more like him. Relaxed when she was tense. Warm and calm when she felt anxious and often too stern.

There were reasons. Lessons hard learned that made that seem the better way, but she wished things might have been different. For him. For her.

“I was going to say I was sorry,” she blurted before she could frighten her words away again.

He grew a little more still. “For what?”

It had made sense to her at the time, but now it seemed silly and inadequate. “For you,” she admitted, her voice small. Which was all right, because they were seated close and she did not doubt he heard her clearly enough.

His brow furrowed, and his expression grew bewildered. “Whatever for?”

She wanted to shrug. But she’d thought to offer the apology, and she couldn’t back away from it now. Braum had made that rather clear. “That... I can’t ask you inside. That I won’t... that I’m not able to be what...” she paused. He’d already said she presumed too much on what he needed. That his wants were his own, and she shouldn’t trespass or presume when too often she pushed another man into his place. “I don’t know how to be better,” she said instead, voice cracking ever so slightly. It was an embarrassment. She wanted to be strong and clear and not constantly blubbering and yet...

He disarmed her. She could not name how he did it with such unwavering efficiency, and yet he managed it every time.

“Better than what?” Braum asked gently.

She huffed. Felt his fingers squeeze about hers. “Better than I am. Not so anxious, all the time. Afraid of what you’ll do or say next that will make all this a mistake.” She turned miserable eyes to his and found him without reproach or frustration. Just a deep sort of sadness that she often felt herself.

“Because you like how things are?” he supplied just as kindly. A hint of hope about the edges—looking for one of those scraps he claimed to only occasionally need.

She felt the weight of it. The cost. The little protections she had erected about her heart so she could simply keep on going. Living and working and loving only things with four legs. Safer that way, wasn’t it? Rather than admitting that she... cared for him. About him. Whether it was the warmth of his neck or that he keep coming back to sit on this porch he’d made for her, it mattered.