Of Burdock and Brandy [Alex Keller x Widow! Reader] - I. Hemostasis
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from the Modern Warfare series
Warnings/tags: SMUT (18+ MDNI) , widowed reader, descriptions of prosthesis, language, depictions/discussions of grief, fluff
Ranch life isn’t exactly what you ever pictured yourself doing, or even what you might have chosen for yourself. It’s hard. It starts early and ends late. You’re on your feet for most of every day, and you go to bed sore. You’ve got a barn full of horses who depend on you for their food, their water, their safety. It’s a lot more responsibility than you’d have ever taken on by yourself.
Of course, you hadn’t done it by yourself, not really. It had always been your husband’s dream, after all. But he’s been gone for years now, leaving everything to you.
Most days you love it. You’ve grown to enjoy the routine, the satisfaction of working with your hands. And it had been good for you in those early days after your husband died. You’ve learned that horses are more empathetic than most people.
Some days, though, despite the beauty of the open skies and the comfort of the beasts you raise, are harder than others. Some days are lonely. Some simply feel like they could crush you beneath the weight of responsibility.
Maybe that’s why you agreed to this crazy plan.
You check your watch. 11:39 a.m. You’ve got just enough time to straighten yourself out before the boys get here.
You glance over at your animals, smiling when you see your mare chasing a new gelding around the paddock, and walk into the house. You brush your teeth, scrub dirt from your cheeks, and sniff the shirt you’re wearing. It doesn’t stink, exactly, but you’re not sure you want to smell like the barn to meet your new houseguest. The boys are used to it by now, but who knows how Alex will take it… although you suppose he’ll have to get used to it.
You’re just pulling a fresh t-shirt over your head when you hear the crunching of gravel under tires. A boarder whinnies at the intruders, and you find yourself hurrying out the front door.
You wave at the dark SUV rumbling up your driveway, but jog to the paddock to calm the anxious mare. She’s watching the vehicle warily, snorting and pawing at the ground. You snag a halter on your way between the corral’s rails.
“Hey, Flora baby, c’mere.” You extend your hands, watching her carefully. You’ve been working with her for a few weeks now, but she’s extra skittish and you can’t be too careful. Her attention shifts to you, but she still darts glances at your new visitors. You shush her, reaching forward to pat her neck, praising her when she calms beneath your touch. You slip the halter over her head, and she only tosses it once. She nickers as you lead her to a hitching post in the paddock, tying her off with just enough lead to stretch her legs. Your own mare nuzzles at your shoulder when you turn, and you pat her nose. “I’ll be back for you,” you promise, dropping a kiss on her soft snout.
“Still doin’ this, then?” Kyle’s got one foot on the fence, aviators hanging from his fingertips as he grins at you.
You smile back. “What, you think I’d ever give this up?”
“Nah.” He offers you a hand as you duck between the rails, then uses that hand to drag you into a bear hug. “Good to see you, love.”
“Always good to see you, Kyle.”
“Och, Simon, d’ye see that?” You lean around Kyle to smile at Johnny, who winks when he spots you. “I think our jo’s picked a favorite, then.”
“I’ve always been her favorite!” calls Kyle. He slings a heavy arm over your shoulders as you make your way toward the others.
You blow a kiss at Johnny, who catches it and clutches it to his heart, and wave to Simon as he appears behind the car. He nods, resting one hand on the liftgate.
“Alright, love?” he rumbles.
“Alright, Si.”
He grunts, turning his attention back to the trunk. “Johnny?”
“Just a minute, LT.” He’s walking toward you with arms spread wide. “I’ve gotta kiss my best girl.” He does kiss you, on both cheeks, as he swings you up in his arms. “Good t’see you, hen.”
“It’s good to see you, Johnny. How’re things?”
He nods toward the back door of the SUV, which has swung open. “Could be better.” He sets you down, only to nudge you in the ribs. “Could be a lot worse.”
“Always could be,” you agree. Kyle lopes past you to extend a hand to the backseat passenger, who steps out gingerly. You watch as a pair of boots swing out, one by one, each planting themselves carefully on the uneven gravel. You wonder absently whether you should, or could, pave the drive, but you can’t even tell which foot is prosthetic. Then a crutch comes into view and you have an idea. As the boots round the door, you follow them up a long pair of legs and over a broad chest until they meet a ruggedly handsome face.
Alex peers around the ranch with an air of caution that melts any reservations you might’ve been harboring about taking him in. You find yourself straightening your spine, clasping your hands loosely behind your back as he takes in his surroundings. Dusty blue eyes scan the fenceline, and you make a mental note to check out the damaged post you saw earlier this morning. As he regards the barn, you do a quick mental calculation on feed. You’ll be needing to go into town by the end of the week. He cocks his head at the training ring before his attention is drawn to the horses in the paddock, and you smile at the wickering you can hear from here. That paddock, your pride and joy. The only reason you’ve been able to keep this business since losing your husband. Your ten acres is manageable, but it’s still a handful. It’ll be nice to have some help around the house once Alex gets, both literally and figuratively, back on his feet.
He shuffles, pulling your attention back to him. He’s looking at you now, curious but guarded. With effort, he takes a step forward. You dart toward him, reaching out a hand.
“Alex, right?”
He ducks his head in a quick nod of acknowledgement. “Ma’am.”
Johnny shoves him lightly, but he still stumbles a bit. You instinctively reach forward, but pull your hand back as he rights himself. “Don’t call her ‘ma’am’, she’s nae that old.”
Alex, tall as he is, somehow looks up at you from beneath his ashy lashes. “Sorry, ma’am.” It’s Kyle’s turn to swat him before you chuck the younger man under the chin.
“Leave off, I don’t mind it. At least he’s more respectful than you lot.” You introduce yourself, but add, “Really, I don’t mind being called ma’am,” with what you hope is an encouraging smile. Alex smiles back and you relax just a bit more. “Can I get you heathens some lunch? I’ve got a chicken in the oven, be ready in twenty minutes.”
The boys all talk over each other; you catch Simon muttering about the airport, Johnny’s enthusiastic acceptance, and something from Kyle about vegetables. You wave a hand at them and look at Alex instead.
“Please come in and make yourself at home. I’m sure our friends can handle your bags.” You make off toward the house, but realize quickly that Alex can’t keep up. You wrestle with whether or not to offer him help, wonder what help you could even offer, and decide it’s not worth the risk to his pride. You simply slow your steps. “How was your trip?” you ask.
One side of Alex’s mouth twitches up, but it looks bitter and his eyes remain locked firmly on the ground. “Just fine, ma’am.”
You only debate for a moment before deciding to test the waters. “Just fine? I thought flying private would have been an experience to remember.” You say it like a joke, with the implication of luxury, waiting to see if it lands. Alex looks up, startled, and falters a bit. You sober quickly. You’re unsure how to act, and clearly he is too. “Sorry,” you murmur.
“Champagne and caviar,” he quips, glancing at you before refocusing his attention at his feet. Well, you think wryly, foot. But that joke is probably far too familiar. You’re just pleased to have gotten some reaction.
“I see,” you say, drawing out the vowels. “Well I’ve no champagne and caviar, but I always have a fresh pot of coffee and a full pantry.”
“Best coffee you’ll ever ‘ave, mate.” Kyle jogs up, dropping his arm around your shoulders. “Takes the skin right off your teeth.”
“Bleedin’ good stuff, but watch you don’t have a heart attack,” adds Johnny. He materializes on Alex’s other side, holding an office file box.
Simon lumbers behind, muttering something indistinct about fools and coffee.
“Don’t worry Si, you know I always have tea for you.”
“And she’s even got a proper kettle, now that you bought it for her!”
“Don’t be daft, Kyle, you know he bought that thing for himself.”
“So what if he did? She’s still got it, hasn’t she?” Kyle squeezes your shoulders. “Haven’t you, dove?”
The two lean around you and Alex to bicker while Simon sighs heavily, shouldering past you all with a heavy looking duffle. He holds the door impatiently, but you can see his eyes twinkle behind his balaclava when you wink at him. You point the boys down the hall to the spare bedroom, breaking off to the kitchen to set the table.
Your table is a massive old thing, handcarved oak your husband made when he got sick. You run your fingers lovingly over the surface and give yourself one deep breath before opening the cupboard.
Johnny is the first one out. He squeezes your elbow on his way to the sink to wash his hands. “How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Good,” you say. You’ve just set the plates out, and when you turn, Johnny’s holding the silverware. You pick up Simon’s beloved kettle and open the tap to fill it.
“About Alex, I mean.”
You glance up at him. “Yeah, no, I feel good. He seems nice.”
Johnny hums. “He is nice.”
You grin at him. “Well I did actually trust that y’all wouldn’t send a fox to the proverbial henhouse, y’know.”
Johnny beams at you, and Kyle groans as he steps into the kitchen.
“Don’t tell me Johnny’s got you calling yourself ‘hen’, now.” He takes over the sink the moment you walk away, scrubbing his hands and then splashing his face. You belatedly realize you left your breakfast dishes when he begins washing them, but you know it would be pointless to argue with him.
“Only if it makes a good joke,” you say.
Kyle’s eyes crinkle at the corners, fine lines barely visible in his dark skin.
“You lot wouldn’t know a good joke if it bit you on the nose,” grumbles Simon. As always, his approach is silent enough to make you jump.
Johnny scoffs. You laugh. Kyle rolls his eyes. “Tell us a good joke, then,” he says.
Simon stops, considering. You can hear the thump of Alex’s crutch on your hardwood floors, but every other footstep–his real foot, you imagine–is soft.
“You want to know what always makes me smile?” asks Simon. He slips around you without touching you, always without touching you, and takes mugs out of your cabinet. When Alex comes around the corner, you smile and gesture to the end seat for him. He nods, lowering himself carefully and resting his crutch against the edge of the table. “Face muscles.”
The kitchen falls utterly silent but for the faint sound of steam building in the kettle. Kyle’s hands are frozen in the sink, Johnny’s midway to the table with a place setting, and you stop dead in your trip to the fridge. Slowly, you each turn your heads to watch Simon, who stands calmly, a mug in each hand. He gazes at each of you in turn until you begin to giggle. Instantly, the room erupts into noise. Johnny thumps the table and wheezes; Kyle howls with laughter, head nearly touching the faucet. Even Alex’s moustache twitches in your peripheral vision.
Simon nods to himself and sets the mugs on the countertop. The nonchalance with which he moves, as if he always knew it was only a matter of time before you all lost it, makes you laugh even harder until tears stream down your cheeks. Johnny transfers his thumping from your tabletop to your back, nearly knocking you down.
“Ah, LT, I think you broke our wee bird.”
“Oi, dingus, you’re the one who’s gonna break her!” Kyle swoops in, wrestling Johnny off you while you recover.
You shake your head at Simon. “My husband always did say you were funny.”
The room quiets again. “Your husband wouldn’t know a good joke if it bit him on the nose, either,” Kyle muses.
You snort. “Sure wouldn’t. Now all of you, sit. Let me get this bird out.” There’s a clamor of protest at your choice of words that makes you snicker, but everyone sits except for Kyle. He uses one long arm to sweep the assorted coffee mugs closer to the pot and finally gets into the fridge for the milk and cream you were after.
“Coffee, Alex?” he asks.
“Please.”
“Cream?”
“Perfect.”
There’s something in his voice that calls out to you even in that single, innocuous word; some quiet resignation that resonates in your soul.
“There’s a sugar shaker in the center of the table,” you say, when you see Kyle set Alex’s mug down. Simon’s attention is fixed on dipping a bag of Earl Grey into his teacup, and you’re not sure whether he or Kyle see the slight dip of Alex’s head as he reaches for the shaker.
Johnny sees it, though. His gaze snags on Alex’s movement before sliding to you. He smiles, just as wide and bright as the first time you met him, before tipping you an understated wink. Your shoulders dip in some inexplicable relief.
You plate roasted chicken and vegetables, topping each plate with a daub of mashed potatoes before walking them to the table—first to Alex and Simon, then to Johnny and Kyle—before taking a plate for yourself. Kyle hops to his feet to pull your chair out, taking care not to bump your knees against the heavy wooden post, and you feel a crush of gratitude for these friendships you’ve built.
Lunch is a soft lull of conversation; stories the boys can tell, stories about your horses. Alex stays quiet, eyes on his plate as he methodically works his way through his food. He thanks you when he’s done, excusing himself to his room. You watch him go, worried.
“Give ‘im time,” Simon says. He stands and collects the plates, taking them to the sink in one tall pile that wavers as much as your confidence that they won’t tip and break against the floor. “He’s hurting, and not just from that leg.”
Johnny nudges you as he picks up mugs. “He’ll warm up to you, birdie. Just you wait and see.”
Kyle reaches for your hands across the table. You take his gratefully. “Let him come to you, love. He will, when he’s ready. And he’ll be a good friend.”
You smile, nerves quelled for the time being. “Thank you,” you say, turning to direct it to all of them.
You hadn’t realized how lonely you’d been until you had four huge men filling the empty space in your kitchen, washing and drying dishes and complimenting your cooking. For one moment, the ever-present ache in your heart clenches painfully as you remember that, once, this was your life every day.
You shake it off long enough to walk the boys out, waving through the dust they kick up as they drive off.
With leftovers and your kitchen done and dusted, you make your way to the barn to fill hay nets. It doesn’t take long, but by the time you step back outside, dark clouds are rolling in. Fast. You curse under your breath before calling the horses.
They come to you willingly, allowing themselves to be closed into their stalls–all but Flora. You slap a hand to your forehead when you remember that you tethered her before lunch. As you hurry out to the paddock, thunder rumbles. You jog out, fingers quickly working through the loops of rope. Flora snorts as you do. You murmur soft apologies, stroking her face before leading her back to the barn. Feet away from the door, the clouds overhead burst and rain pours down.
Flora stops dead in her tracks, tossing her head as her eyes begin to roll. You sigh internally, soothe her with soft words and pats, and manage to coax her into the barn.
Not before you’re soaked through, of course.
Luckily for you, Flora’s coat is thick enough that you don’t have to worry overmuch about drying her. You ensure that the paddock gate is latched behind her, pat her flank, and leave the barn. The rain is coming down sideways, and you raise one arm to block the worst of it from your face. That and being accustomed to solitude are the only reasons you don’t notice Alex until your boots touch the porch.
“I was worried you might’ve gotten caught out there.” You jump at the sound of his voice. He leans on one crutch and holds out a towel to you with a nervous smile. “Sorry.”
You take the towel with a tentative smile of your own. “Not at all. I’m not used to having anyone waiting on me any more.” You scrub the towel over your head and down your face, slaking off most of the water with the motion.
Alex is peering out over the field when you look up. You try to think of a way to fill the silence before deciding that it’s not important. You turn your attention out, toward the foothills just past your property line.
“How long’s he been gone?” When you look at him, he ducks his head in a half apology and gestures to your wedding band. “Your husband.”
You sigh and spin the ring. “Five years now.”
Alex gives you a sideways look. “Awful young to be a widow.”
“I was.” You swallow the lump in your throat. “We didn’t get much time.”
He’s quiet for a few minutes. Then, “I’m real sorry.”
“Oh, don’t be.” You wave a hand absently in his direction, even as your heart clenches painfully and your throat swells. “I’m sure you’ve lost people, too.”
Alex’s head tilts a bit in your direction. “Sure, but… not like that.”
You nod, because what else is there to say to that?
Lightning flashes. Seconds later, thunder rolls through with such force that your porch rattles. Alex starts, nearly losing his balance. You reach out on instinct, despite the fact that you wouldn’t be able to keep him upright if your life depended on it.
Alex flinches the moment you make contact, settling into a near-predatory crouch. Or rather his best approximation of one, with the crutch still under one arm.
You raise your hands and take a half step back. “Sorry,” you murmur.
Alex straightens, runs a hand down his face, and begins to… laugh.
“I think,” he begins, sighing on the tail end of his laughter, “that you and I have apologized to each other more than anyone else in my life in less than a fraction of the time.”
You shrug one shoulder, offering a wry half smile as you look down. “I don’t exactly know how to act,” you admit.
“Neither do I.” He says it on a breath, looking out over your ranch. Then he turns his focus back to you. “Just act normal,” he says.
You arch an eyebrow. “Normally I’m a touchy person, and that hasn’t worked out so well. Although Simon doesn’t like to be touched either, I suppose I could–”
“I like to be touched,” Alex blurts. The moment the words leave him, his cheeks flush a deep crimson. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he murmurs.
You feel your own cheeks heat, which sets your heart to racing. When was the last time you felt like this? The boys flirt with you all the time, but never with any intent—and you’ve never felt a response to it.
Your husband had always been able to make your stomach swoop and your head spin, even when he’d been sick as a dog.
But your husband has been gone for five years.
You look up at Alex, so different from your husband. He’s golden and rugged and broad, compared to your husband’s dark beauty and clean lines and slim elegance. Steady and quiet, rather than energetic and charming. An endurance rider beside a show jumper, a gelding to a stallion.
You wonder what your husband would think, if he knew what you were feeling, but you already know. He only ever wanted you to be happy.
This realization, paired with the way Alex has begun to fidget, breaks you from your trance of Tennessee Walkers and Holsteiners, Criollos and Dutch Warmbloods.
“Well, then.” You let your voice lilt up and, to lean into the moment, bat your eyelashes in a flagrant mockery of flirtation. Then you slowly lay one hand across Alex’s forearm, delighted when he doesn’t react. “Tell me how you like to be touched.”
You wince a bit as you realize just how suggestive that sounds, but Alex huffs out a soft laugh. “It just… takes me a while to settle back into civilian life. You don’t need to change anything for me.” He looks at you with a sardonic smile. “I’ll adapt.”
You squeeze his forearm. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to adapt.” Without meaning to, your eyes flit toward his crutch. You pull them back up almost instantly, but it’s clear he saw your attention shift. “Not any more than you already have to. While you’re here, with me, this is your home. You set all the boundaries, okay? You make the rules.”
He won’t meet your eyes. “I think you’ll find I don’t have too many boundaries. CIA has a way of trampling those.”
Somehow, this conversation has taken a turn. You’re no longer sure what exactly is being discussed–touch, privacy? Rehabilitation? Decisions he’s had to make? You dip your head until you make eye contact.
“Then it sounds like it’s time for you to start building them back up.”
His eyes flick between yours, something wild and haunted surfacing as he does. His tongue darts out across his lips before he looks down to where your hand still rests on his arm.
“You can touch me,” he says, voice hoarse. He clears his throat. “Maybe just… not if I don’t realize you’re there. I don’t want to hurt you if you startle me.”
He hasn’t raised his head, which you take as a sign that he’s not ready to meet your eyes. You calculate your response for a heartbeat before you turn back to your paddocks, letting your hand slide down until your arms are pressed together and your palm rests on his wrist. “Jumpy, needs prior notice of intent. Noted.” You pat his wrist and are relieved when he chuckles. You think he leans toward you, but maybe your shoulders just pressed together when you changed position. “Anything else?” you ask.
Thunder peals as you stand side by side. Alex tenses beneath your fingertips, but relaxes more quickly after each clap. “Uh. Knock before you open my door?” Rather than shove him, you reach your free hand over to smack his chest. That gets a real laugh out of him. “I don’t know, I’m really not worried.” He looks at you sidelong. “And you? Any concerns?”
You shake your head without hesitating. “No. Kate wouldn’t have put me in danger, and neither would the boys. I trust you because they trust you.”
He hums, pleased. “What did she offer you, anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
“Kate. How did she convince you to harbor a fugitive?”
You scoff dismissively. “Fugitive.”
Alex pulls his hand away, turning to face you. All traces of good humor are gone, replaced by self-loathing and scorn. “That’s what I am,” he says.
You turn toward him, leaning against the porch railing. The wind has picked up, sending icy rain in your direction now. You hold his gaze, unflinching. “Your record lists you as PKIA.” Alex’s jaw drops in shock. “I don’t know much more than that, but there’s a big difference between being a hunted fugitive and being presumed dead. I don’t think I’m in quite as much danger as you think.” You shift your weight up, turning toward the front door. Once your hand makes contact, you look back over your shoulder. “And even if I am, she didn’t have to convince me. She explained the risks. She asked if I’d be willing, and I said yes.”
You let the screen door ease shut behind you, but it creaks open again a moment later.
“Why?” Alex asks. His voice has a hard edge that you’re not quite brave enough to face. “Why risk your freedom and everything you’ve built for a stranger? You could lose everything!”
You whirl on him. “I already lost everything!” He reels back, even though you’re across the room from each other. You let your head fall back as you try to put your thoughts and feelings into words. “When I lost my husband, I lost the will to live,” you admit. Your voice comes out softer than you intended, more strained. “Kate and the boys, well, they really helped me.” You find yourself moving toward your husband’s table, running your fingers along the edge of the wood. “They reminded me that I have purpose here, with the horses. With the people who trust me with their horses. To this dream my husband had.” Your throat closes around his title, just like it always does, but it feels good to finally say this out loud. “I was lost, drifting in a sea of grief. Did they ever tell you?”
Alex doesn’t say a word. You don’t look up. You go on, sure that they never did. “They worked out a little rotation amongst themselves. They’d each come out here for a few days at a time. I still don’t know how they managed it, but they never left me alone. Kate and Kyle took turns washing my hair, doing my laundry. Johnny made weeks’ worth of food, filled my freezer up and left little notes around the house. Reminders to drink water, positive affirmations, sometimes just silly hearts. Simon made me so much tea, and would just sit with me for hours. Reading about the horses, or just staring out into space. I still don’t know who, but one of them called a rancher friend and had him take care of my horses for a while.”
You finally look up. Alex is watching you with such fierce intensity that you nearly take a step back. “You may be a stranger, but they’re not. And I don’t know the details, but I know you’re only a fugitive because you did something you thought was right. Kate asked, so I said yes. If she and the boys think this place will be good for you, then the least I can do is welcome you with open arms.”
Alex searches your face for long minutes. He must find what he’s looking for, because he finally says, “Okay.”
You’ve just given a speech longer than days’ worth of conversations. It’s likely more words strung together than you’ve said in one go in years. You’re so deeply, shockingly relieved by that simple acceptance that you begin first to laugh, then to cry. Alex hobbles toward you, making soft noises, and you don’t stop him from wiping at your tears with calloused fingers. You even find yourself leaning into his hand. You don’t understand it, but there’s something about him that just makes you feel… safe.
“Sorry,” you choke out, frantically scrubbing your eyes.
“Stop apologizing,” he replies. He makes an effort to balance without his crutch, letting it rest against the table so he can raise his left hand to your other cheek.
You shoot him an unimpressed look. “You first.”
He barks out a laugh. “Yeah, okay. I’ll do my best.”
You nod, dashing away what you hope are the last of your tears as Alex’s thumbs trace slow paths over the tops of your cheeks.
You sniffle. He watches you.
“Are you tired?” you ask. There are dark circles under his eyes, but it’s the heaviness in their blue depths that makes you ask. “I should have asked you ages ago, you’ve had a long day.”
“Just travelling,” he says, straightening and dropping his hands. “But yes, I’m tired.”
You open your mouth to apologize, but bite your tongue at the last moment. Alex’s eyes glimmer with amusement. Caught.
“I know the boys moved you in, but it didn’t look like much. Is there anything you need?”
He thinks for a moment, but shakes his head. “No, ma’am. Well, maybe a glass of water?”
You nod, already moving into the kitchen. “Of course. Ice?”
“Sure.”
You wave him off. The tap of his crutch disappears under the clinking of ice, and has faded by the time you’ve poured water from the Berkey on the counter. You pad down the hall after him, knocking lightly against the open doorframe. Alex is sitting, hands lightly clasped in his lap. His lips quirk at the fact that you’ve knocked, since you both know he wasn’t serious. And the door is already open.
“Enter,” he mocks, voice deepening.
You make an extravagant bow in return.
“My Lord,” you tease.
Alex shakes his head violently. “Oh, no. None of that, now.” He takes the water from your outstretched hand. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” You survey the room, making sure everything is in its place. There’s an extra blanket folded at the foot of the bed, a fan by the window, and a nightlight leading to the en suite bathroom. You’ve never been more grateful for renovating it as you are now.
“The, uh, shower has a bench,” you say. Your eyes flip to the body pillow that Kyle suggested, then to the duffel sitting on the armchair in the corner. Reupholstering the ottoman had seemed like a fun project, until you realized you had no talent for seamstressing and paid Mrs. Costa to do it instead. It looks beautiful, though. “Is it all right? The room?”
“It’s perfect.”
“Good, good.” You flutter nervously around the doorframe. “Do you need anything?”
You can tell that he’s fighting, but failing, not to smile. “You already asked me that.”
You reach across your body to grab your elbow, pinch the skin between your fingertips. You chew on your bottom lip to stop yourself from saying, “sorry”. Alex laughs lightly.
“Everything is perfect. Thank you.” He drops his gaze, taking his turn to be shy. “Truly, I appreciate this. More than you know.”
“You’re welcome.” You don’t know what else to say, so you turn to go.
“I, uh.” When you spin to face him, Alex’s hands are clutching the blanket. “I have nightmares sometimes. Dunno if Kate told you. So if you hear me yelling… sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” It comes out automatically, but it sounds cheap. So you follow up with, “Thanks for the heads’ up. I won’t worry as much.”
He breathes out a laugh as you step into the hallway. You smile, walk into your own room, and let the door shut softly behind you. You can hear Alex’s crutch thudding against the floorboards as he makes his way into his ensuite. You follow suit and step into your own bathroom to brush your teeth and take a shower. When you’re done, you wrap yourself in your bathrobe and ease your door open. Across the hall, Alex’s door is shut.
After a moment’s hesitation, you leave yours open a crack. Then you tiptoe to your bed, pull back the covers, and slide in.
You’re asleep by the time your head hits the pillow.
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When you wake up, it’s with the feeling that you’ve forgotten something important. You’re laying still, too comfortable to move, basking in the warmth of your sheets when it hits you.
Alex.
You roll over to look at the clock on your nightstand. 5:27 a.m. You close your eyes for the last three minutes before your alarm rings, taking the time to listen.
You hear nothing.
Your hand comes down on the clock on the first ring, silencing it before it can wake Alex. You flick on the lamp on your nightstand, pad to your closet, and pull out clothes for the day—trusty blue jeans and a plain t-shirt, boot socks, and a light jacket. You carry the bundle into your bathroom, peeking into the hallway as you pass your door.
You pause.
Alex’s door is open, light off. Room apparently empty.
You frown. You never heard him get up.
No matter. You get dressed and, when you step into the hall, you can see that the kitchen light is on. Your heart slows, when you hadn’t even noticed it picking up.
You make your way there, taking care not to step too quietly. You intentionally shut your door with an audible click, put your foot down on a board that’s always creaked, slide your hand along the wall.
Alex is already looking in your direction when you come into view, hands folded on the empty table in front of him. You smile, and he smiles back.
“Good morning,” you say.
“Good morning,” he says back. “I, uh, didn’t want to start digging around in the cupboards and wake you up.”
You flick a hand in the air, dropping it to skim over his shoulders as you pass him. He straightens under your touch, and some long-sleeping side of you preens.
“I think you just wanted more of my world-famous coffee.”
“You caught me.”
You grin over your shoulder. Then, you make coffee.
Alex turns in his chair to watch you, eyes tracking your every movement.
“Eggs and toast okay?” you ask.
“Sounds great,” he replies.
You open the fridge. “Sleep well?”
You hear the chair creak as Alex shifts. “Well enough.”
You straighten and turn to look at him. “Was it the bed? We can look at mattress toppers. Were you warm enough?”
Alex cuts you off with a huff of laughter before you can continue your inane prattling. “Plenty warm.”
You quirk a brow, determined to get a real laugh. At least a smile. “Too warm, then?”
Alex levels you with a look so blank that you break first, snorting loudly as you spin away.
“Sorry, sorry,” you wheeze. You’re not.
“Sure you are.” There’s an exasperation in his tone that should be a little too fond for your short acquaintance, but it only brings a steady warmth to your chest. You expect that to be the end of it, but when you turn to place a cup of coffee in front of him, he thanks you with a nod and then takes a deep breath. “It’s just so quiet here.”
With the way he holds himself, you expect that there might be more to that statement. You lean your hip against the table and wait, brows raised. Alex pales slightly and then rushes on.
“It’s hard to adjust, and I’ve always had a harder time than most people I know. It’s like the bed is too soft and the house is too quiet. And those aren’t bad things!” he rushes to add. “It’s just different. I went from a war zone to a field hospital to a clinic, and then from safe house to safe house. I’ll get used to it. Ask me again in a week.”
He gives you a weak smile, but the smile breaking slowly over your face is bright and excited.
“I think I may have a way to help with that. Do you think you can get on a horse?”
