Chapter 26 One Bed
The rain didn’t let up when we slipped out of the alley. It followed us like it had a grudge, cold fingers slipping down the back of my collar, soaking through everything until my skin felt borrowed and brittle. I kept hold of Fisk’s arm—half for show, half because my legs had decided they were done with me. He didn’t slow. Didn’t even glance down. Just pulled me along like I weighed nothing, like the mud wasn’t trying to swallow us whole.
The inn looked like it had lost a fight with the weather years ago and never recovered. Crooked sign, sagging roof, door that didn’t quite sit right in its frame. But there was light. And warmth. Right then, that was enough to feel like a miracle.
We stepped inside together. My boots dragged in sand and rot, leaving a trail I couldn’t hide even if I tried. The air smelled like stale beer and something souring in the walls. Three people sat scattered through the room, and every one of them looked up when the door slammed behind us.
Fisk didn’t hesitate. He guided me straight to the bar, his arm settling around my waist like it belonged there. Like I belonged there. His coat shifted with the movement, shielding my side, hiding more than it should’ve been able to.
I leaned into him because it made sense. Because it sold the lie.
Because it felt… steady.
“Looking for a room,” he said, easy as breathing. “Two, if you’ve got them.”
The innkeeper’s eyes slid over me slow and deliberate, catching on every bruise I hadn’t bothered to hide. My throat. My hands. I fought the urge to wipe the blood away, to make myself smaller.
“Three coins a night,” the man said. “Up front.”
Fisk made a soft sound like he was thinking it over, like this was a normal conversation. “Not even something warm first?”
“Another coin.”
The man kept looking at me. Not at Fisk. Me.
I tugged Fisk’s sleeve before he could argue. He looked down, sharp and quick. I shook my head. Just a little.
We didn’t have it.
The ring pressed warm against my chest, like it already knew what I was about to do. This was going to kill my soul, I hope she would understand. My fingers found the chain without thinking. Paused. Then I kept going.
The clasp slipped free.
The weight of it dropped into my palm, heavier than it should’ve been. Like it knew it wasn’t supposed to leave me.
“Would this cover us for a week?” My voice didn’t shake. I didn’t let it.
The innkeeper took it, and turned it. Bit it. Held it to the light like he might find something hidden in it.
“Three nights,” he said finally. “Top room.”
Fisk’s fingers brushed the back of my hand.
It should’ve been nothing. Barely there. But my skin caught on it like a spark.
I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t.
The ring disappeared into the man’s apron, and something inside me twisted tight enough to make breathing feel like work. I swallowed it down. Hard.
We took the key. Climbed the stairs. I don’t remember most of it—just the sound of the wood creaking and the way Fisk stayed close behind me, like he expected me to fall and was already ready to catch me.
At the door, I fumbled the key twice before swearing under my breath. Fisk reached around me, close enough that his chest brushed my back, and took it from my hand.
“Careful,” he murmured.
The word ghosted over my ear, warm despite everything, and I hated how my stomach flipped at something so small.
The door creaked open.
The room was… barely a room. Slanted ceiling. One narrow bed. A window that looked like it might give up and fall out if the wind pushed hard enough.
I stepped inside anyway.
Fisk shoved a chair under the handle before dropping onto the bed like he’d been holding himself together just long enough to get here. The frame groaned under him. I stood there for a moment, staring at nothing.
My hand lifted to my collarbone out of habit.
Nothing.
Just skin.
That hit harder than I expected.
“You didn’t have to give him that,” Fisk said.
I shrugged, too fast. It pulled at something sore. “We needed the room.”
“I would’ve figured something out.”
I huffed a quiet breath. “Yeah? What, charm him into it?” It came out sharper than I meant. The words hung there, heavier than they should’ve been. It was my choice. I shouldn’t take it out on him. He doesn’t know what that ring means to me.
Fisk didn’t snap back. Didn’t smile it off. He just looked at me. Really looked. I felt like he could see right through me and I hated how venerable that made me feel.
And suddenly I was too aware of everything—how close we were, how small the room felt, how his coat was dripping onto the bed and how I could still feel where his hand had touched mine downstairs.
“Tell me what it meant,” he said. I stared at my hands, twisting the edge of the blanket between my fingers.
I didn’t want to say it.
I didn't want to give it shape. I didn’t open up the door of emotions. But the words came anyway. Quiet. Broken up. Like if I didn’t look directly at them, they might not hurt as much.
My father. The ring. The promise that never came back. My mother’s hands. The way she pressed it into mine like it could fix something it never did.
I told Fisk, It was something my mother gave me. That it was a ring my dad got her.
But not as important as it was.
He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t fill the silence. Just let me get through it. It took a while between the sobs and hiccups. But I worked through it and finally got it out. Now that I was done speaking, the room felt smaller somehow.
Quieter.
His hand settled on my shoulder, thumb brushing just above my collarbone—right where the chain used to rest. My breath caught.
“I’ll get it back,” he said.
Simple. Certain.
I almost told him not to. Almost said it didn’t matter. But the way he said it… like it was already done, like he’d decided and that was the end of it—I nodded instead.
Just once.
Because if I said anything, it might come out wrong. I might break down.
I moved to the basin just to have something to do. Splashed my face with water that smelled like rust and old pipes. It was cold enough to sting, and I welcomed it.
When I dried my hands, my fingers brushed the bare skin at my throat again.
Still nothing.
Behind me, the bed creaked as Fisk shifted. I didn’t turn right away. I needed the space. Needed to breathe without him looking at me like that.
But when I finally did—He was watching. Not guarded. Not calculating.
Soft.
It caught me off guard in a way knives never could. He patted the space beside him. Not pushing.
Just… there.
I hesitated longer than I should have. Then crossed the room and sat. Close enough that I could feel the heat of him. Far enough that I could pretend I wasn’t aware of it.
The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty. It pressed in, thick with everything we weren’t saying.
My fingers drifted to my collarbone again. His hand moved at the same time—stopped just short of mine. We both noticed.
Neither of us pulled away right away.
My pulse stuttered, loud enough I was sure he could hear it.
I dropped my hand first.
He leaned back slowly, like nothing had happened. Like I hadn’t felt that almost-touch all the way down to my ribs. I lay back beside him, staring at the ceiling, every inch of me too aware of the space between us.
Or how little of it there really was.