Chapter 29 Old Habits in a New Tavern
Morning didn’t arrive so much as seep in—thin gold leaking through the cracks in the shutters, painting the floorboards in long, uneven stripes. It touched the edge of the table, the crooked leg of the chair, the rumpled blanket—and him—and me.
I didn’t move.
Warmth held me there, heavy and unfamiliar. Not the kind you earned from a bottle or stole from a fire before it burned out. This was steadier. Quieter. It wrapped around me from behind, sank into my bones, made it dangerously easy to forget where I was.
His arm was still there.
Curled low across my stomach, palm resting like it belonged. His fingers flexed once, slow and absent, like he was chasing something in a dream. The motion dragged lightly against me, enough to pull a breath sharp in my chest.
I stilled.
Listened.
Wind tapped at the window, softer now, more tired than relentless. Below, something heavy rolled—barrels, maybe—followed by a shout and the dull thud of wood on wood. Life starting up again whether I was ready or not.
Behind me, Fisk breathed deep and even, the sound brushing warm against the back of my neck. Every inhale lifted me with him. Every exhale settled me back.
Too close but yet not close enough.
I let my eyes drift shut again, just for a second. Let myself feel it without thinking about it.
At some point in the night, the line he’d drawn between us had vanished. Kicked aside. Forgotten. I couldn’t remember when I’d crossed it. Or if he had.
Only that I’d woken like this.
Curled into him. Like I fit there.
My fingers curled lightly into the blanket. If I shifted even a little, I’d feel more of him. More heat. More weight. More something I didn’t have a name for.
I almost turned.
Almost.
The thought slipped in before I could stop it—what he’d look like like this. Asleep. Unaware. Guard down. Close enough to count the small scars along his knuckles, the faint line at his jaw where the bruise had started to bloom.
My body leaned before my mind caught up.
I stopped myself.
Barely.
If he woke, there’d be a smile. A comment. Something easy and sharp that would break this—whatever this was—and turn it into something lighter. Safer
I didn’t want that.
Not yet.
So I stayed still.
Pretended the world had paused just for us.
It didn’t last.
A shout from below. The scrape of chairs. The sharp ring of metal striking metal. The day shoved its way in whether I welcomed it or not.
I exhaled slowly and lifted his arm.
Careful.
Slow enough that the shift didn’t wake him. His hand dragged across my stomach as I slipped free, fingers catching for half a heartbeat before falling away. The loss of it hit harder than it should have.
Cold rushed in to fill the space.
I didn’t look back.
Couldn’t.
I crossed to the basin, the floor cool under my bare feet. The mirror above it was cracked down one side, splitting my reflection into something slightly off.
I stared anyway.
I looked… almost like myself.
The bruises had dulled, fading into green and yellow shadows. My hair fell in damp tangles over my shoulders, softer than it had any right to be after everything.
My hand lifted, and found my throat.
Nothing there.
The skin felt too bare. Too light. My fingers traced the spot where the chain should’ve rested, where the ring used to sit against my collarbone like it belonged.
A hollow grief answered me.
Sharp. Quick.
I closed my hand before it could spread and dropped it back to my side. My eyes burned. But I blinked the tears back.
Survive first.
Everything else later.
I dressed in what had dried enough to pass and tied my hair back with a strip torn from my sleeve. The room felt smaller now, the bed behind me too obvious.
I still didn’t look at it.
Didn’t look at him.
I stepped out before I could change my mind.
—
The tavern below was already alive.
Heat, noise, bodies packed tight. Wet coats steamed near the hearth, the air thick with smoke and spilled ale. Voices overlapped—laughter, arguments, the scrape of coin on wood.
It hit me all at once.
And settled just as fast.
I knew this.
Knew where to step, how to turn without bumping anyone, how to slip between shoulders and elbows like I’d never left it behind.
The innkeeper spotted me before I could find a corner to hide in. His gaze swept over me once, quick and measuring.
“You’ve worked at a tavern before?” he said. “You want work, you start now.”
No softness in it. No welcome. Just a fact.
My fingers brushed my throat again before I could stop them.
Empty.
“I’ll need an apron,” I said.
He tossed one my way without another word. I caught it, shook it out, tied it tight at my waist. The knot sat firm against my stomach, grounding. Then I stepped in. It came back easy.
Too easy.
The rhythm slid into place like it had been waiting for me. Three mugs in one hand. A quick smile here, a sharper word there. A touch on a shoulder to redirect a man before he got loud. A laugh that meant nothing and everything at once.
I moved.
I worked.
I didn’t think.
By the time the rush eased, my hands were steady, my shoulders loose, my mind quiet in a way it hadn’t been in days. Then he walked in. I felt it before I saw him. A shift in the room. A glance here, a second look there.
I turned.
Fisk leaned in the doorway like he owned the place, hair still damp, shirt unlaced just enough to show the line of his throat. The bruise along his jaw had darkened, pulling the eye whether you wanted it to or not. Mine went there first.
Then lower.
Then snapped back up when he caught me looking.
That grin spread slow and easy, like he’d been waiting for it.
He dropped onto a stool, elbows braced on the bar. “Who let you loose back here?” he said. “Reckless decision.”
The innkeeper snorted from the other end. “She’s made me more coin in a morning than the last one did in a week.”
Fisk’s brow lifted. “Should I be worried?”
“Probably,” I said, stepping in close.
Closer than I needed to be. I reached past him for a bottle, my arm brushing his shoulder. Solid. Warm. He didn’t move.
Neither did I.
“You planning to sit there all day?” I murmured, low enough that it stayed between us. “Or did you come down just to watch me work?”
His gaze dropped to my mouth, then back to my eyes. Slow. Deliberate.
“Thought I’d make sure you hadn’t burned the place down yet.”
“Give me time.”
I poured him a drink—real liquor, not the watered-down swill most of them were getting—and slid it across. My fingers brushed his as he took it. He didn’t pull back.
Not immediately.
The contact lingered just long enough to notice. Just long enough to feel. His thumb shifted slightly against my knuckles before he let go.
“Careful,” he said, lifting the glass. “You keep serving me like this, I might start thinking you like me.”
I leaned in, close enough to feel the heat of him again, to catch the faint salt and smoke clinging to his skin.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Cap.”
But my voice didn’t quite land sharp. His smile said he heard it anyway. He drank, watching me over the rim.
Then, just as easy, he stood.
Gone before I could decide if I wanted him to stay.
“Got things to see to,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Try not to miss me too much.”
I snorted, turning away before he could catch whatever might’ve been on my face.
“Not a chance.”
The door shut behind him. The room filled back in. But something stayed shifted. I found myself glancing at the doorway anyway.
Once.
Then again.
And hating that I did.