Chapter 31 Thirty one

Chapter 31 Thirty one
ORION’S POV

I sat on guest room bed after the porch conversation ended, staring at the cracked plaster ceiling. The house was quiet now, only the occasional creak of settling wood and the distant hoot of an owl outside. My body ached from the day’s chores and the wrestling match, ribs tender where Caleb had caught me with a solid tackle, knuckles scraped raw from gripping fence posts and hay bales. But the physical pain felt almost welcome. It was better than the slow, gnawing ache in my chest that had nothing to do with bruises.

I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed Gran.

She answered on the second ring.

“Tell me everything,” she said without preamble.

I exhaled. “She didn’t slam the door in my face. That’s something. Her father let me stay in the guest room, I helped out with chores and got a full interrogation from the brothers. They’re protective but they didn’t run me off. I finally got to talk to her.”

Gran was quiet for a moment.

“That’s progress,” she said finally. “She’s letting you breathe the same air. That means she hasn’t closed the door completely.”

“I know.” My voice dropped. “I hope she looks at me the way she used to. She’s not there yet. But she’s not pushing me away either.”

“You’re doing the hard part,” Gran said gently. “ just don't crowd her and let her come to you when she’s ready.”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “I’m trying.”

“You’re doing more than trying. You’re there. That matters.”

We talked a few minutes longer about the wedding preparations still quietly ticking along, about the ring still in my pocket, about the hope I was clinging to with both hands. When we hung up I felt steadier.

I needed air.

I slipped out of the guest room, careful not to wake the house, and stepped onto the porch. The night was cool, stars sharp overhead, the kind of sky you never saw in the city. I walked down the steps and started toward the open field behind the barn, hands in my pockets, trying to clear my head.

That’s when I saw her sitting on the low stone wall that separated the yard from the pasture, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. She wore one of her father’s old flannel shirts over a tank top, hair loose and silvered by moonlight. She was staring at the sky, face tilted upward, lost in thought.

My heart lurched.

I approached slowly, boots soft on the grass so I wouldn’t startle her.

I failed.

A twig snapped under my heel.

She startled hard, whipping around, one hand flying to her chest.

“Jesus, Orion.”

I raised both hands. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

She exhaled a shaky laugh, pressing her palm to her sternum. “You’re lucky I didn’t throw something at you. I thought you were a raccoon.”

I smiled despite myself. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

I stopped a few feet away. Not crowding. Just close enough to see the faint freckles across her nose in the moonlight.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Too much in my head.”

“Same.”

We stood in silence for a moment, the night sounds filling the space between us: crickets, distant cattle lowing, wind moving through the tall grass.

She looked back at the stars.

I looked at her.

Then, slowly, I stepped closer.

She didn’t move away.

I opened my arms.

She hesitated.

Then she unfolded from the wall and walked into me.

I wrapped her up gently, one hand at the small of her back, the other cradling the nape of her neck. She tucked her face against my throat. Her arms came around my waist. For the first time since she left, I held her.

Really held her.

She smelled like sun-warmed hay and the faint lavender soap she always used. Her body was soft and warm and familiar against mine. I rested my cheek on the top of her head and closed my eyes.

We just stood there, breathing together under the stars, letting the hug say everything words couldn’t yet.

After a long minute she sighed against my collarbone.

Then she pulled back slowly.

She looked up at me, eyes shadowed in the dark.

“Goodnight, Orion,” she mumbled.

Before I could answer she slipped out of my arms, turned, and walked toward the house.

I watched her until the screen door creaked and closed behind her.

I stayed outside a while longer.

The night air cooled the skin where she had pressed against me.

I pulled my phone out, opened our message thread the one that had gone silent since she left and typed.

Goodnight, my love.
I’m here.
I’m not going anywhere.
Sleep well.

I hit send.

The message delivered but I got no reply.

I slipped the phone back into my pocket and walked to the guest room.

I lay on the too-short mattress, staring at the ceiling again.

She had let me hold her.

She had stayed in my arms longer than I expected.

She had said goodnight instead of goodbye.

Small things.

Fragile things.

But they were something.

I closed my eyes and tried to hold onto them.

I would be patient.

I would be steady.

I would be here.

And maybe, just maybe, she would let me stay.