Just Right
˚₊‧꒰ა 🎀 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
I tried something new with this; it’s a long historical fiction set in the early 1900s, centered on a complicated love between a young woman and her father’s best friend.
There’s a significant age gap (about 20 years), and I want to be really clear: this story doesn’t romanticize anything that happened when she was a child. Nothing happened between them until she was grown, and even then, their relatinship happens when they are both age appropriate and they fall in love later. I know that in a modern context it’s not okay and that’s intentional. It’s why her family struggles with it. It’s why the story exists.
It’s about boundaries, waiting, restraint, and choosing love only when it can be chosen freely, not before. The setting, values, and characters are very much shaped by their time, but the emotional heart of the story is about love that’s earned, not taken.
There’s longing, family tension, grief, tenderness, and a girl who’s been underestimated her whole life stepping into the world with her own voice.
If you read it, thank you. I’d love any feedback, good or bad. It means a lot just to have someone sit with these characters for a little while.
＊🌸•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚🎀 ˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙🌸˚＊
Our lovely characters
Monica is 20. She’s been sick most of her life, the kind of girl people try to protect by keeping her small. She realised her feelings for Clark a few years ago, but only ever said it once she was grown.
Clark is in his early 40s. A widower. A soldier. He’s known Monica since she was a child, but never felt anything toward her until she became a woman and made the first move. Even then, he refused her.
John & Martha are Monica’s parents.. John is Clark’s closest friend, and Martha sees everything long before anyone says it out loud.
Daniel & Elias are Monica’s older brothers. They love her fiercely and react exactly how you’d expect older brothers to. They have their own families, already being older than her.
˚₊‧꒰ა 🎀 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Clark stood there a long moment, the hum of Martha’s voice drifting through the open kitchen window, the scent of steeping tea curling through the air. John was still talking, something about the orchard needing pruning, about the laborers being late again, but Clark wasn’t listening. Not really. His jaw ticked once. His hands, though at his sides, were clenched just enough to betray what was storming underneath. Then, without warning, he spoke. Clear. Steady. Loud enough to silence both birds and breeze.
“I have feelings for your daughter.”
John froze mid-sentence. His hand, lifted in gesture, dropped slowly to his side. Clark didn’t flinch.
“I’ve had them for some time,” he said. “I didn’t intend it. I didn’t expect it. But I feel what I feel.”
The air around them seemed to solidify, thick with something weightier than the summer heat. Even the birds grew quiet in the trees. John’s brow furrowed, slowly, like a man doing mental arithmetic that refused to add up. His mouth parted, then shut again. He looked toward the house, toward the open kitchen window, where soft clatter drifted outward. A girl’s laugh floated through, light and quick. Then the thud of a kettle being moved from flame to table.
Monica.
Inside, she moved easily through the little kitchen with her mother. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, her long braid brushing the small of her back each time she turned. She hummed under her breath, some childhood tune she used to sing when she thought no one was listening. Her hands, pale and deft, moved over the mismatched porcelain teacups her mother had laid out. The set had belonged to her grandmother, a wedding gift, though time and accidents had left it uneven. Her mama spoke of evening guests, of jam that hadn’t set, of Daniel maybe sending his children for the harvest. Monica nodded, murmuring, “Yes, Mama,” and “Of course.” But her eyes kept flickering to the window. She’d known Clark was outside the moment he’d arrived, the way the dog barked once, then quieted with a wagging tail. The way her heart gave a small, traitorous leap. Outside, John still hadn’t answered. Now he turned to look fully at Clark, his gaze measured, steady, and unreadable. The older man’s fingers twitched at his side.
“You say you feel it,” he said finally, low and even. “But what does that mean?”
Clark didn’t blink. “It means I’ve tried not to. I’ve buried it. Prayed on it. Walked away from it more times than I can count. But I can’t change it. And I don’t want to anymore.”
John’s mouth tightened. “She’s young.”
“She’s a woman,” Clark said—too fast, but he didn’t pull the words back. “And more than that. She’s…”
He stopped, his jaw working again, this time searching for words that could carry both sense and truth.
“She’s kind,” he said at last. “She’s good. Wiser than I ever was at her age. She’s lived through more than most and still smiles like it costs her nothing. When she speaks, people listen, not because she demands it, but because they want to. And she sees me. All of me. I never asked her to.”
John looked away again. The orchard stretched before them, row after row of trees, green and full. A breeze stirred the outer edge of the grove but didn’t reach them.
“She told me once,” Clark continued, quieter now, “the year she turned nineteen. Told me what she felt. I told her no. Said I wouldn’t… couldn’t. And she said she’d wait.”
His voice caught.
“And she has.”
Inside, Monica’s hands paused over the teapot. Her fingers brushed the rim of the lid, then went still. Her mother had stepped into the pantry to fetch preserves, leaving the room silent, except for the kettle and the world outside the window. She couldn’t hear everything. But she heard her name, once, then again. Heard Clark’s voice, steady and strange with conviction. Her heart fluttered in that same, familiar way.
She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. She only listened. Outside, John exhaled long and low.
“You know what they’ll say.”
“I do.”
“That you’ve known her since she was a child. That you waited. That it’s unnatural.”
Clark’s jaw flexed again. “Let them say it. I’ll answer for it. But I never touched her. Never gave her cause. Not until she came to me, and even then, I turned her away.”
John gave a slow, solemn nod. His eyes stayed on the trees, but his thoughts seemed elsewhere now—deep beneath bark and root.
“And our friendship?” he asked.
Clark’s voice cracked, just barely. “Still sacred. Always.”
Silence stretched between them. A bird chirped once, tentative, then stopped. From the kitchen, the kettle gave a soft whistle—just one.
Finally, John said, “Then you’ll court her. Properly.”
Clark’s head lifted.
“You come through the door, not the window. No secrets. No shame. If this is what you want… be a man about it. You ask. And then we see what she says.”
Clark’s breath hitched. He hadn’t realized until then how tightly he’d been holding himself.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes.”
From the kitchen window, Monica stood with both hands clasped around the tea towel, breath caught in her chest like a bird tangled in netting. She had not moved in minutes. When her mother returned with the preserves, Monica turned and smiled, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with something unspeakable.
“Is the water ready, dear?”
“Yes, Mama,” Monica replied, her voice calm, her hands now steady. “Just right.”
She turned to set the cups on the tray, her heart pounding, because the world had shifted beneath her feet, and she knew it. No one had said a word, but she knew. They came in just before the sun reached its peak, the door swinging wide to spill heat and light into the little kitchen. John entered first, his boots measured against the worn floorboards. Clark followed close behind—quiet, but without hesitation. There was a tension to him now, not the kind bred of fear, but the kind a man carries when he’s chosen to step toward something sacred and irreversible. The scent of the tea had deepened—black, strong, tinged with wild mint. Martha stood at the table, her sleeves floured, smoothing the creases of her apron as her gaze flicked to the doorway. Her expression didn’t shift, but one brow lifted, just barely.
“Don’t track in dirt,” she said mildly, eyes not leaving Clark’s face. “And shut the door. It’s near boiling in here already.”
John chuckled and obeyed, brushing dust from his coat. Clark said nothing, but his eyes remained on Martha. Across the room, Monica stood with the tray in her hands, and she felt it, the charge in the air. Dense as thunder before the first crack. She met Clark’s gaze just once. Only a second. But it was enough. Martha straightened, dusting her palms against her skirt.
“I believe there’s something you’d like to say to me, Mr. Grady,” she said. Her voice was cool, not cold, but sharpened by expectation.
Clark opened his mouth, but Martha raised a hand.
“I may be a woman, but I’m not blind.” She turned to the cups, adjusting them though they were already perfectly placed. “I’ve seen the way you look at her. Not just today. For months. And I’ve seen how she looks at you.”
Monica froze.
John, leaning against the doorframe now, murmured something under his breath, whether it was agreement or caution, no one could quite tell. Clark stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back like a soldier awaiting judgment.
“I would never disrespect your home,” he began.
Martha gave him a look. “Don’t you start reciting, Clark. I’ve known you since you were stealing pies off my mom's windowsill with John. Speak plain.”
Clark’s shoulders relaxed just slightly. “I love your daughter.”
The room seemed to shrink in on itself. Monica didn’t breathe. John didn’t move. Martha glanced briefly at Monica—just a flicker of her gaze—then turned back to Clark.
“I know,” she said.
Clark blinked. “You… you know?”
“I said I wasn’t blind.” Martha folded her arms. “I’m a mother. And a woman. You think I don’t recognize the sound of a heart breaking and healing again? You think I haven’t noticed the man who keeps showing up for tea, he never drinks?”
Clark flushed—not from shame, but from the truth of it.
Martha studied him. “You’re not the boy you were when Melissa passed. You’ve grown into something solid. A man who’s known grief and still wakes up each morning, that matters to me.”
He nodded, quiet.
“But I’m going to ask you questions, Clark Grady. And I expect straight answers.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you intend to marry her?”
Monica’s breath hitched audibly. Clark’s eyes flicked to hers—just for a moment.
“I do.”
“Do you love her as she is, or as you imagine her to be?”
“As she is,” Clark said without pause. “Every stubborn, brilliant, sweet part.”
Martha narrowed her eyes. “Will you still love her when she’s sick again? When the cold sets in and her lungs fail her, and she can’t speak for days?”
Clark’s jaw tightened.
“I will.”
“And when she wakes crying from dreams she won’t speak of? Or when the weight of the world is too much, and you’re the one who has to carry it?”
“I will.”
“And when they talk about you—about your age, your past, your choice to love a girl twenty years your junior—when they don’t understand the silence and patience it took to get here?”
“I will,” Clark said hoarsely. “Let them talk. I’ll choose her anyway. Every day. Every night.”
The room held its breath.
Then Martha’s stern expression softened, slowly, like winter giving way to spring.
“Well,” she said, exhaling sharply. “Good. Because if you hadn’t, I’d have run you off with the broom.”
John chuckled, and this time the warmth in it reached the corners of the room.
Monica finally moved, placing the tray on the table. Her hands trembled only slightly. Her cheeks glowed. Her eyes shimmered.
Martha reached over and took her hand.
“You already knew?” Monica whispered.
“I’m your mama.” She brushed a strand of hair from her daughter’s face. “Of course I knew.”
Then, brisk as ever, she turned toward the table.
“Well, don’t just stand there like painted ghosts. There’s tea going cold and bread to slice. If this courtship’s to begin, it’s not starting on an empty stomach.”
Clark looked to Monica again. This time, she smiled.
He smiled back, small, certain, and took a seat at the table like he’d always belonged there. The house, as if in response, exhaled with the fading light—like a living thing settling into peace.
The fire crackled low in the parlor hearth, its light catching faintly on the brass buckles of John’s boots. He sat slouched in his armchair, staring into the flames like they might answer a question he hadn’t yet found the courage to ask aloud. Clark stood at the mantle, one hand braced against the carved wood, the other holding a half-filled glass of whiskey he hadn’t touched. The light glanced off the rim, amber and unmoving. They’d been quiet a long time. Men had that way, when the weight between them grew too thick for quick words.
At last, John spoke.
“You didn’t love her.”
His voice wasn’t cruel. Just low. Flat. A truth too long carried. Clark didn’t move.
“You could love someone,” John went on, eyes on the fire. “But not Melissa. Not the way she wanted. Not the way she needed.”
Clark turned then. Slow. Steady. He met John’s gaze.
“No,” he said. “Not like that.”
John leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. The firelight carved deep lines into his face, shadows pooling under his eyes.
“I always wondered,” he said. “You never looked at her the way a man looks at a woman he chose.”
“I didn’t choose her,” Clark said quietly. “I… saved her.”
John didn’t speak, but something in his brow tightened.
“She was being promised off to Fletcher Brandt. Old. Mean. Half-drunk before noon most days. Her father didn’t care. Said she’d be someone else’s problem once she bore him a son.”
Clark stared into the flames now.
“I knew what went on in that house. What she’d face. So I asked for her hand.”
John’s voice was hoarse. “That wasn’t love. That was mercy.”
Clark nodded once. “I know.”
Silence settled again. The fire popped softly, sparks curling up into the dark.
“She was grateful,” Clark said after a moment. “We made do. She loved me in her way. And I tried, John. I did.”
“I know you did.”
And this time, there was no accusation. Just weariness.
Clark gave a small, bitter laugh.
“There were moments,” he said. “Quiet ones. But if Nadia had been standing on that path the day I offered for Melissa…”
His voice caught.
“I’d have walked right past her. Not out of malice. Just truth. I would’ve helped another way. Paid for passage west. Found someone kind. But if I’d seen Nadia then, really seen her—”
He swallowed hard. “I wouldn’t’ve survived it. Loving her from a distance. Knowing she’d never be mine.”
His grip tightened on the mantle.
“I can barely breathe now, knowing she might be. If she’d been lost to me, if you’d said no…”
He didn’t finish the thought.
John looked at him. Not as a father guarding his daughter. Not even as a friend burdened by years. But as a man. A father. A soldier who had seen too much and learned what mattered too late.
“She’s the best thing I've ever made,” he said quietly. “Her and the boys. But she was always… different. Fragile. Like the world might blow her away if we didn’t watch closely.”
Clark nodded. “I know.”
“So when I saw how you looked at her, after all these years, I was afraid again. That she’d give her heart too quickly. That you’d break it without meaning to.”
Clark didn’t flinch. “I’d die before I hurt her.”
John didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he stood slow, careful, like a man who’d paid for every step and crossed to the hearth. He took up the iron poker, stirred the coals until sparks flared and died again. Then he turned.
“You mean every word of that?”
“I do.”
John studied him.
The man who had marched beside him through mud and fire. Buried a wife. Carried more weight than most men could bear. And still stood straight.
Finally, John exhaled.
“Then go home for tonight and come back tomorrow,” he said
Clark blinked, almost smiled, but only gave a quiet nod.
Clark left, coat over his arm, hat in hand. He didn’t linger, not out of doubt, but with the restraint of a man whose path was now chosen.
He paused on the porch, where the stars had begun to gather in the east.
“I’ll come again tomorrow,” he said. His voice was low, aimed at both John and Martha, but his eyes remained on Monica.
“If we’re still here,” John muttered, though his lips curled faintly.
“You’ll be here,” Clark replied. He tipped his hat—and was gone. Boots on gravel. Saddle creaking.
Inside, lanterns winked out one by one. Monica had gone up first, quiet in movement, but loud in thought. She’d kissed her mother’s cheek, squeezed her father’s hand, and climbed the stairs to her small room beneath the eaves without a word.
In the master bedroom, John sat on the edge of the bed, peeling off his boots with a groan. His shirt hung open, his braces slack, his hair silvering fast. Martha stood at the washbasin, her face clean, her braid long and loose for the night.
“She loves him,” she said without turning.
“I know.”
“You heard it, didn’t you? In her voice. I’ve never heard her sound like that before.”
“She’s always been strong.”
“She has,” Martha agreed. “But now she’s strong for something. That’s different.”
John leaned back, eyes on the ceiling. “I still don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to,” Martha said gently. “No one asked you to.”
Silence fell between them. The cicadas outside rose in a steady hum. A breeze drifted in through the open window, cool and sweet.
“I wrote to the boys,” Martha said.
John sat up. “You did?”
“Of course. They’d hear of it by week’s end. If not from us, then from the preacher’s niece or the butcher’s cousin’s wife. This kind of news doesn’t keep.”
“What’d you say?”
“I told them the truth. That Monica’s found her match. It may not be what they imagined, but it’s hers. I told them Clark came with honesty and plain words. That there’s no scandal, no shame. That's what’s ahead will be done right.”
John nodded. “And the rest?”
Martha gave him a look. “I told them not to come.”
He frowned. “You told them not to come?”
“I did,” she said, sitting beside him. “Because they’d do more harm than good. Daniel would raise his voice. Elias would try to whisk her off to the city. They’d make noise. They’d make fear. And right now, she doesn’t need noise. She needs space.”
“She’s still their baby sister.”
“She’s not a baby anymore.” Her voice softened. “Hasn’t been in a long time. They just haven’t seen it.”
He sighed long and low.
Martha touched his knee. “You saw Clark. You saw how he spoke. Like the words had weight. Like he was already answering to God Himself.”
“I saw.”
“And you saw her.”
He nodded. “Didn’t want to. But I did.”
“She’s never given her heart away lightly. She’s stepped into the world now, John. With him. Let’s not be the ones who shut the door behind her.”
John said nothing for a long time. Then, with a grunt, he stood and blew out the lantern. Martha crawled into bed and lay on her side, watching him settle beside her.
“She’ll be all right,” she whispered.
“I hope so.”
“She will.”
He found her hand beneath the quilt and held it. Neither of them spoke again.
The morning came in on a hush of gray, the kind of quiet that settles like a wool blanket, heavy, damp, and full of waiting. Rain had started sometime in the early hours, not a storm, but a steady fall that whispered across the roof and down the windows like a secret being passed from sky to soil.
Inside, the hearth was already burning, low but sure. The scent of simmering oats and stewed apples filled the kitchen, mingling with the sharper bite of woodsmoke and the faint tang of ash clinging to John’s coat.
Monica moved softly, her slippers silent on the worn wooden floor, her hair pinned up in its usual morning twist. She stirred the pot with one hand while her mother sliced a heel of bread beside her. Neither spoke much—not out of tension, but from a shared stillness, the kind that comes after a shift in the air. The house hadn’t broken. It had simply… rearranged itself.
“Bring the eggs out when you’re done,” Martha murmured, not looking up.
Monica nodded, hands moving by habit. Her mind, however, was elsewhere. Her eyes kept flicking toward the door, though she didn’t know why. Clark had said he’d come again today. But it wasn’t even eight yet. It was still early.
Then, from outside, a sharp crack broke the morning calm, once, twice. Gunfire. John was out back with the rifle. Practice, he’d said. But they all knew what it really was: a man working something out in the only language he trusted.
Then came a different sound.
Hooves. Fast. Urgent.
Monica looked up sharply. Martha froze mid-slice, her fingers still curled around the knife. The sound grew louder, more than one horse. And no slowing. The door slammed open, the hinges groaning.
Elias stood in the doorway first, broad-shouldered, wild-eyed, soaked to the bone. His coat clung to him, water streaming down his sleeves. Mud spattered his boots and knees. Behind him, Daniel stumbled in, breathless, his face flushed from the cold and the ride.
For a moment, no one said anything. Just the whisper of rain outside. And the soft crackle of the fire. Elias’s gaze swept the room, his mother, Monica, and then to the space where a man might have stood, but didn’t.
Martha’s lips thinned. “I told you not to come.”
Elias didn’t respond. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. He looked between the two women again, reading their silence like a map he didn’t understand.
Daniel pulled off his soaked hat. “You sent a letter and expected us to just sit and nod like everything was fine?”
“I sent a letter,” Martha said, her tone hard as flint, “because everything is fine.”
“Where is he?” Elias asked. His voice was low. Too low.
“Gone,” John’s voice answered from behind. He stepped in from the back door, rifle slung over his shoulder, boots trailing mud. “He left after supper. Said he’d come again today.”
Daniel turned on him. “You let him come here?”
John met his son’s glare without blinking. “We invited him.”
The silence that followed pressed against the walls.
Monica still hadn’t moved. Her hand rested on the stove’s edge. Her eyes were wide, not with fear, but something deeper. She looked at her brothers as if they were strangers. In some ways, they were.
Elias turned to her. “Monica…”
She straightened.
“Is it true?”
“Yes.”
“You love him?”
“Yes.”
Daniel shook his head. “You’ve known him since you were a child.”
“I’m not a child anymore.”
He flinched like she’d struck him.
“You’re twenty,” Elias said tightly.
“And I know what I want.”
“You don’t know anything,” he snapped. “You’ve been in this house your whole life. You’ve been sick. You’ve been sheltered. You don’t know men like him.”
“I know him,” she said, calm and clear. “Better than you do.”
Elias took a step forward.
John took one, too.
“Boys,” Martha said firmly, lifting a hand.
They paused.
“I raised you better,” she said. “You rode through the night, didn’t you?”
Both sons nodded, sheepish now.
“We left the moment the letters came,” Daniel admitted. “Didn’t even eat first.”
Martha sighed. She crossed the room, touching Daniel’s cheek, then Elias’s arm. They stood still for her, always had.
“You’re good sons,” she said gently. “But you’re not needed here. Not today.”
“We’re worried,” Elias muttered.
“I know. But she doesn’t need your fists. She needs your faith.”
Daniel looked at Monica again. His shoulders lowered.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
“I am.”
He said nothing back. But something in Elias's face shifted. Like he saw her, really saw her for the first time. As if all this time, she’d been growing and he hadn’t noticed.
“You’re not our baby anymore,” he said softly.
“No,” she replied. “I’m not.”
Martha turned back to the stove. “Well then. Sit yourselves down. You’re soaked, and the eggs will go cold.”
The boys obeyed, quiet, uncertain, but grateful for the task.
The breakfast table was quiet. Not heavy, just tentative. The clink of forks.
Martha poured tea with her usual care, movements precise. John chewed his bread like it might talk back. Elias sat hunched, his guilt folding him in two. Daniel hadn’t touched his food. His eyes had barely left Monica.
She sat at his right. Smaller than all of them. Paler than she should be. Her hands trembled slightly as she sliced into her bread. Her head was bowed, not enough to hide, just enough to protect.
She looked too pale.
Still healing.
The cough had only just left her. The fever had taken days to break. Even this morning, Martha had hesitated to let her up.
“I’m not broken,” Monica had whispered. “Just tired.”
Now, under Daniel’s stare, she trembled again.
Like a leaf caught in the wind.
John noticed. Elias, too. But neither moved.
It was Martha who broke the silence, her weapon as ever being simple conversation.
“How are the children?” she asked, buttering her bread. “Daniel—did Ruth’s tooth ever come in? And Elias, how’s Myra managing those twins with her hip still acting up?”
Elias blinked. “Oh. They’re… good. Myra’s stubborn. She’d keep walking if her leg fell off. Twins are walking now. Into everything.”
Martha smiled. “That age.”
“I miss them,” Monica whispered.
Daniel said nothing.
Martha turned. “And Ruth?”
Still nothing.
Daniel’s eyes burned holes in the table.
Monica’s shoulders folded in. Her hands clenched faintly. A lock of hair slipped loose near her temple. Her breathing was soft but off. Too shallow.
She stifled a cough.
The pressure of her brother’s stare was too much.
John set his fork down hard.
“Daniel,” he warned.
But then, a sound outside.
Hooves again. Louder now. Closer.
Everyone froze.
Monica sat up straighter, as if the sound itself had tugged her upright by an invisible thread. Her face went paler still, but not from fear.
Clark.
Martha was already standing. Elias, too.
Daniel moved like something unchained. He was up and out of his chair before anyone could stop him. He didn’t hesitate. He stormed to the front door and threw it open just as Clark’s horse pulled up in the muddy drive. The man hadn’t even swung his leg down when Daniel grabbed the front of his coat and yanked him from the saddle. Clark hit the ground hard, his shoulder skidding through the mud, breath forced from his lungs in a grunt.
“You bastard!” Daniel roared.
Inside, John shouted, his chair crashing back as he surged to his feet.
Martha gasped, one hand flying to her chest.
Elias sprinted past them toward the door, boots thudding against the wood. “Daniel—don’t!”
But Daniel wasn’t listening. Clark pushed himself to one knee but didn’t stand. He didn’t lift a hand to defend himself. He looked up at the man towering over him, soaked in rain and rage, and stayed still.
“You were like an uncle to us!” Daniel shouted. “You sat at our table. Told us stories by the fire. Helped teach me to shoot, to ride, you were there the night Mama gave birth to her!”
Clark’s eyes didn’t flinch. “I know.”
“You’re younger than our father by one year!”
“I know.”
“You watched her grow up! Held her when she was sick, when we thought she wouldn’t make it through the winter, when they said she might not live past six!”
“I know, Daniel.”
Daniel snarled and swung.
The fist cracked against Clark’s jaw. His head snapped to the side, mud streaking his cheek, but he didn’t fall. He didn’t hit back.
“Fight me!” Daniel bellowed.
“No.”
Another punch. Harder.
“Fight me!”
“No.”
Inside, John was storming down the steps. Elias reached the door, grabbing Daniel’s arm and trying to drag him back, but Daniel shoved him off, sending him stumbling against the frame.
And then… Monica.
She ran. Bare feet hit wet boards. Her slippers soaked through in seconds. Her braid was half-loose, her dress clinging to her legs in the rain. She knew. Clark wouldn’t fight back. And Daniel, when his blood was up, he didn’t stop. No man had ever stood against him past a certain point. So she didn’t yell. She didn’t cry. She stepped between them. Just as Daniel’s fist rose again. The blow struck her cheek with a crack so sharp the whole world seemed to go silent.
Martha screamed.
John’s voice thundered: “DOWN, BOY, BEFORE I PUT A HOLE IN YOUR HEAD!”
Daniel froze.
Monica stumbled backward. Her knees buckled like snapped twine. Clark caught her before she hit the mud fully, but not in time to stop the weight of the fall. She was hot in his arms, fever, hot, too hot. She whimpered, soft and sharp, her hand clutching her face.
“Shhh,” Clark whispered, cradling her close, brushing wet hair from her eyes. “I’ve got you.”
Martha was already flying down the steps, skirts dark with rain. John followed close behind, rifle forgotten.
Daniel dropped to his knees, the mud swallowing his legs. His hands trembled. His face had gone chalk , white. “No. No, I didn’t— I didn’t know it was her—”
“You didn’t look,” John growled, voice low and lethal. “You never looked. You just hit.”
“She ran out—I didn’t mean—I thought—”
But no one was listening.
Martha knelt in the mud, cupping Monica’s face with both hands. “My girl, my baby. You’re all right. You’re safe. We’ve got you.”
John shoved Daniel backward with a flat palm to the chest. “Get in the house. Before I forget you're mine.”
Elias, breathless, dropped beside Clark, one hand on his shoulder, unsure whether to help, or just be there.
Monica blinked up at Clark. Her lips parted like she meant to say something, but only a small, broken sound came out. Her eyes fluttered shut. Clark pulled her tighter against him, holding her like something sacred. Rain ran down their faces, indistinguishable from tears. He didn’t look at Daniel. He didn’t have to. The damage was done. And this time, it wasn’t Clark who had broken something. It was the brother.
Clark carried her inside with both arms wrapped around her, cradling her like something sacred and breakable. Her head rested against his collarbone, her braid limp and wet down her back, the dark bruise on her cheek already rising like spilled ink beneath the skin.
She weighed next to nothing. He remembered her as a child, a sickly little wisp who once fit perfectly into the crook of his arm during a fevered night. She didn’t weigh much more now.
Martha was already clearing the table with quick, purposeful motions.
“Upstairs. Now. Put her in her bed.”
John opened the stair door without a word, stepping back like a soldier receiving orders. Clark nodded and carried her up, steady even on the narrow steps. Behind him, Daniel stood frozen in the doorway—mud-soaked, slack-handed, eyes wide but empty. Elias followed slowly, breathless and stunned. By the time Martha reached the bedroom, Clark had already laid Monica down gently, brushing damp hair from her face with the care of someone touching something ancient and holy. The moment Martha entered, he stepped back without needing to be asked.
“Get me the cloth,” she snapped at Elias, who darted to the washroom. “And the salve from the cabinet. If we’ve any willowbark left, bring that too.”
Clark stood against the wall, mud trailing from his sleeves, blood drying on his lip where Daniel’s punch had split the skin. He didn’t wipe it away. John hovered at the door, too proud to leave, too furious to speak. Monica whimpered as Martha dabbed at her cheek. The swelling was worse now, the bruise darkening quickly. The corner of her mouth was torn. Her eyes fluttered half-shut, and she whispered something like “I’m sorry,” but Martha shushed her softly.
“No talking,” she said, firm but kind. “Foolish girl. Running into fists like a barn cat under wagon wheels.”
“She knew he wouldn’t stop,” Clark murmured from the wall.
“And what of that?” Martha snapped. “She’s still healing. She was pale at the table and worse by the time she ran out. She’s barely eaten all week. Her chest still rattles, and now this?”
She wrung the cloth hard, water dripping to the floor.
Elias returned with the salve. “Mama....”
“Set it down,” she said briskly, and took it from him, smoothing the balm over Monica’s face with trembling hands. She didn’t speak again until the worst of it had been tended to. Then she turned. Daniel was sitting at the hearth bench now, having drifted in while they worked. His elbows were on his knees, head bowed into his hands. He hadn’t said a word since John had shoved him away from the girl he’d struck. Martha descended on him quietly. No shouting. No wrath. Just the crushing weight of twenty years of motherhood behind her. And when she spoke, her voice broke, not from rage, but from something heavier.
“You hit your sister.”
Daniel flinched.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“But you did.” Her voice trembled. “You didn’t stop. You didn’t see her.”
“I thought it was Clark....”
“You thought with your fists!” she snapped. “With your pride! And what’s pride ever done for this family but get us bruised and empty?”
Daniel looked up at her, eyes red, rain still in his lashes. “She’s just a girl.”
“She’s a woman,” Martha said, and it wasn’t a correction; it was a declaration. “She’s been one since the day she learned to hold her tongue through pain no child should feel. Since the day she kept breathing even when the doctor said she might not. Since the moment she understood this world wasn’t made for girls like her, she chose to walk through it anyway.”
Daniel swallowed.
Martha folded her arms. “What has Clark done, Daniel? Has he dishonored her? Lied? Whispered things behind our backs? No. He’s waited. Buried what he felt out of respect. And when she told him how she felt, he turned her away, for her sake. Not his.”
“He’s too old.”
Martha’s voice turned steel. “And what of that? You think that’s new? Every good man in this county married a girl ten years younger. Some twenty. Don’t play like you don’t know the world.”
Daniel’s jaw worked. No words came.
She stepped forward. “What did you want for her? That soft-handed baker’s son who couldn’t carry his own flour? The one who left her in the rain because he didn’t want to ruin his coat?”
Clark shifted at the mention. Elias snorted under his breath.
“Or that tailor’s boy who stared at her like a doll for display? The one who told me he wanted to train a quiet wife?” She nearly spat the word. “Train, Daniel.”
Her eyes shimmered with furious clarity. “I’ve seen what poor marriages do to strong women. Faye Reynolds married at sixteen to a man twice her age, who left her with six children and no name to feed them with. But Margery Allen? Married her father’s hired hand at seventeen, they’re still walking side by side forty years later.”
She drew a breath. “This...what Monica has....it’s hers. She chose it.”
Daniel’s voice broke. “She shouldn’t have to be small and sick and needing rescue.”
“She doesn’t have to be,” Clark said quietly from across the room. “She lets me.”
Everyone turned.
Clark hadn’t moved. But his voice cut through the quiet like a hymn.
“She lets me carry her, Daniel. That’s not a weakness. That’s trust. The strongest kind.”
Martha blinked hard. “And you beat that trust like it was nothing. You broke it. For what? Because you didn’t like the shape of the man she loves?”
Silence. From upstairs came a small, painful sigh—Monica, half-asleep in the fog of her pain. Clark turned toward the stairs but caught himself. He wouldn’t go without permission.
Daniel stood slowly. “I’ll apologize.”
Martha nodded. “You will.”
“To her.”
“To her. Not now. Not when she’s still bleeding.”
Daniel turned to Clark. There was still rage in him, but now, it swam beneath the surface, smothered by shame.
“I still don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to,” Clark replied.
“But I understand.”
The room was small and plain, just as it had always been, John’s study, if it could be called that. A shelf of well-worn ledgers. A high-backed chair near the window. A map on the wall so old its edges curled like burned paper. A quiet room. A room for words that mattered.
Elias stood near the window, arms crossed, his coat still damp at the hem. Daniel sat on the low stool near the fire, his face hollowed by what he’d done. Outside, the rain had softened to a mist. No one had spoken for several minutes. Then John finally said, “You two always wanted to protect her. I raised you that way. Taught you to watch over what was small and good in this world. And she’s always been the smallest—and the best.”
Neither brother answered, but both watched him.
“But you’ve forgotten something,” he went on, settling against the desk. “She’s not made of glass. That girl’s been stronger than any of us since the day she came into this world. When the midwife said she wouldn’t last the week, your mother just looked her in the eye and said, ‘She’ll prove you wrong.’ And she did. Over and over again.”
Daniel lowered his head. Elias rubbed at his jaw.
“You can’t protect her from living. And if you try, all you’ll teach her is how to hide.”
He stood upright again. “Now. He’s waiting outside.”
Daniel stirred.
John looked at each of them. “You’ll sit. You’ll listen. No fists. No shouting. I’ve made my judgment. Now you’ll hear his truth and decide if you can live with it.”
Then he opened the door and called into the hall.
“Clark.”
A beat. Then Clark stepped into the room, hat in hand. His jaw was bruised. One side of his shirt still carried a faint streak of dried mud. He looked tired—but not bowed. He didn’t meet their eyes at first.
“You asked to speak,” John said. “So speak.”
Clark gave a slow nod and stepped forward.
“I didn’t mean to love her,” he said.
Daniel tensed, but said nothing.
“I didn’t want to. I fought it harder than anything in my life. And I’ve lived through war. I’ve buried a wife. I’ve buried men I called brothers. But this, this I buried too. Because I was ashamed.”
He exhaled once, slowly.
“It started that day two summers ago. You were all here, your families, the kids running wild in the orchard. There was singing outside. Your mama was making preserves. I came late. Supper had already started. And she was in the yard.”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, unbidden.
“Barefoot. Hair down. Spinning with her niece in her arms. Wearing that yellow dress, too big for her, and that little pink ribbon I gave her when she was five. She wore it for days. Said it made her feel like a princess.”
He looked down, the weight of it all rising again.
“She had just turned eighteen. And for the first time, I didn’t see the little girl I used to tell stories to. I saw someone growing. Alive. Bright. Beautiful. And something in me shifted.”
He swallowed.
“I buried it, drank every day to make it vanish. Hated myself for it. Prayed it would pass. Told myself I was sick. She was a child. Your sister.”
His voice cracked. “So I stayed away…tried…wouldn’t meet her eyes. Found reasons not to visit. Left before sundown. I thought I could kill it by starving it.”
He looked up at them both.
“And then she turned nineteen.”
Daniel’s jaw ticked.
Clark’s voice softened. “It was late. She couldn’t sleep. I’d gone outside for air. Something had me twisted up that night, I don’t even remember what. I was sitting on the porch. And she came out.”
A pause.
“Barefoot again. Always barefoot.”
He gave a ghost of a smile.
“She sat beside me. Quiet. And we listened to the crickets for a while. Then she asked if I’d ever thought of marrying again. If I could… ever look at her that way.”
Daniel made a sound, low in his throat, but John’s look silenced it.
“I told her no,” Clark continued. “Told her she should be ashamed for asking. Said it was wrong. That our families and our history made it impossible. I said things I didn’t mean. I was cruel.”
Elias frowned. “Why?”
“Because I was afraid,” Clark said plainly. “Afraid of what it meant. Afraid of what you’d think. Afraid of disappointing a man who’s stood beside me through fire.”
Daniel scoffed. “You fought beside our father. But you’re scared of us?”
Clark smiled faintly. “That’s exactly what she said.”
Silence. Then:
“She called me a coward. Said, ‘You went to war with my papa, and you’re scared of a girl’s feelings?’ Then she stood, dusted off her skirt, and said, ‘I’ll wait. Until the day you stop being afraid. And start loving me for real.’ Then she walked away.”
He looked up, directly at them now.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”
The fire crackled in the hearth. Rain tapped faintly on the glass.
“I didn’t plan this,” Clark said. “But I love her. And I never touched her. Never asked for anything. She came to me with her truth, and I buried mine. Until I couldn’t anymore. And when it was time, I came to her father, not to her. Because I meant to do it right. Or not at all.”
John gave a single, approving nod.
Clark turned to Daniel and Elias.
“I’m sorry for the pain this has caused you. But I won’t apologize for loving her.”
Daniel was still.
Elias looked to their father, then back at Clark. “Do you plan to marry her?”
“If she’ll have me.”
“Not keep her secret? Not keep her quiet?”
“No,” Clark said. “Never.”
Daniel stood, slow.
Clark tensed—but Daniel didn’t move closer.
“You’ll never lie to her,” he said.
“Never.”
“You’ll stay when she’s sick again.”
“I will,” Clark said.
Daniel looked down.
“Then I’ll live with it.”
He didn’t offer a hand. But he nodded. And right now, that was enough.
Evening came in heavy, dark, and swollen with rain. By supper, the storm had gathered its full weight. Thunder rolled slow and far, like a warning drum on some distant field, and the trees bent under the wind as if bowing to something older than time. Rain lashed sideways against the windows in long silver streaks, and the house—warm, lit, and low—huddled into itself like a living thing against the dark.
The hearth in the sitting room burned high, lanterns already lit though night hadn’t fully settled. It was the kind of warmth you feel in your bones, not just your skin.
Elias and Daniel had both decided—without saying as much—that they’d stay the night. Elias had gone up to the attic and found one of his old shirts. Daniel sat in the parlor, polishing his boots—not because they needed it, but because he needed something to do with his hands. John had poured two fingers of whiskey. One glass for himself. One set was carefully beside Clark’s empty chair. Clark hadn’t touched it. He was in the hall now, shrugging on his coat, slow and stiff—still favoring the shoulder Daniel had bruised earlier. His body ached, his jaw still sore, but it wasn’t the pain that weighed on him.
It was something heavier.
Something that made a man pause before a door—not because he wasn’t welcome, but because he was.
And that made it matter more.
He climbed the stairs.
The house creaked under his weight, old wood murmuring to itself in quiet conversation with the storm.
Monica’s room was dim. A single lamp burned low on the bedside table. She lay propped against the pillows, hair let down, the braid long undone by Martha’s careful hands. Her face was swollen on one side, the bruise dark and high along her cheekbone, but her eyes were clear. Steady. Following her mother’s movements as she folded and refolded a flannel cloth that no longer needed folding.
Then came a knock.
Clark’s voice, gentle. “May I?”
Monica turned her head quickly, eyes wide, not from surprise, but urgency.
She looked at her mama.
That look.
Martha hadn’t seen it in years, but she remembered it like it was yesterday.
It was the same look Monica had given her when she was five and John tried to chase off the calico kitten that had taken shelter under the porch. The thing was soaked through, no bigger than a teacup, mewing pitifully. John had said no pets. But Monica had turned to her mother, no pleading, no tears. Just that breathless, wide-eyed please.
And Martha, then as now, had sighed, stood up, and said, “Well. The Lord’s made room for worse.”
Now she saw that same look again, but it was older. Quieter. And meant not for a kitten, but for a man who had crossed years and silence to reach this door.
Martha rose slowly. “Come in, Clark.”
He stepped in with care, hat in hand, hair still damp. He stayed just inside the doorway, back straight, boots dripping onto the rug.
“I didn’t want to leave without saying goodnight.”
Martha looked between him and her daughter. Then she lifted her chin.
“And where exactly do you think you’re going in a storm like this?”
“I’ve ridden through worse.”
“I know you’ve ridden through worse. That’s why you shouldn’t ride at all.”
He smiled faintly. Tired. “It’s late.”
“And this house has empty beds,” she said. “Take the one across from Elias. It still remembers your weight.”
His gaze drifted toward Monica. She hadn’t said a word, but her fingers had tightened in the quilt when he mentioned leaving. Her knuckles had gone white.
Martha saw it too.
“She’s never liked goodbyes in storms,” she said, softer now. “Never could sleep through thunder unless she knew everyone was under one roof.”
“Mama,” Monica whispered, heat in her voice.
But Martha only leaned down and kissed her forehead.
“I’ll go heat another pot. No one’s sleeping yet.” At the door, she turned. “Clark.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“You ride out in this weather, I’ll have your horse shot.”
Clark blinked.
She didn’t smile. “We just finished putting her back together. I’m not starting again.”
And then she was gone, footsteps firm and final down the stairs.
Clark approached the bed slowly, like every step might be one too far.
“I wasn’t going to wake you,” he said.
“I wasn’t asleep,” she replied.
“I should’ve known.”
He sat in the stool Martha had left, hat still in his lap, posture stiff, like he hadn’t quite been told he could stay.
Silence gathered.
“I still remember the ribbon,” he said eventually. “Pink. You wouldn’t take it off.”
“I wore it in the bath.”
He chuckled. “You did.”
Another pause. But this one was easier.
“You looked at me like that when you were 15,” he said. “And again, when you were 18. Both times, I was too much of a fool to do anything right.”
“You did everything right,” she whispered.
“I nearly left tonight.”
She turned toward him. “Why?”
He hesitated.
“Because I’ve loved you for too long to trust myself when you look at me like that.”
“I look at you like I know you.”
He smiled.
Outside, thunder rumbled overhead. The house shifted with the wind.
“I’ll stay,” he said quietly. “If you want me to.”
She nodded. Just once.
He reached out, brushing his fingers lightly against hers where they rested on the quilt.
The sky outside was still dark, with just the faintest blush of gray stretching across the horizon like the first breath before morning speaks. The rain had stopped sometime in the night, leaving the fields slick and glimmering under the weight of so much water. The trees, weary from the storm, stood still and dripping, as if wrung out.
Inside, the house was quiet. Still tucked in. Still breathing slow.
But Monica was awake.
She hadn’t slept much. The ache in her cheek was low and steady, and the heat from the bruised skin only added to the lingering fever, twisting her dreams into strange, short things. Still, her body ached to move, to do, and her heart had been beating one steady note since before dawn:
He will wake soon. Soldiers always did. Clark had told her that once, the habit never left. Up before the light, body moving before mind. And what if he woke and left? What if he thought better of it—that he was still a burden here, still unwanted, still a question no one had answered? He wouldn’t say a word. He’d just go. She knew that.
So she crept from bed, bare feet cold on the floor. She wrapped her shawl over her nightgown and tiptoed down the hall, toward the one room in the house that had always made sense. Her parents’ door creaked slightly when she pushed it open.
Inside, the fire was down to coals. Her parents still lay under the quilt, their shapes so familiar it almost hurt. She paused—then stepped forward and whispered:
“Mama?”
It was soft. Hesitant. But not unsure.
Martha stirred immediately.
A lifetime of waking to that voice, through fever, through fear, through endless nights of coughing, had trained her deeper than instinct. She turned, eyes half-lidded, already reaching toward the sound.
“Mmm, baby. What is it?”
Monica stood in the doorway, shawl hugged tight, cheeks flushed with more than fever.
“I want to make him breakfast.”
Martha blinked. “Who?”
“Clark.”
There was no stammer. No flutter. Just the name, spoken plainly.
Martha sat up slowly, dragging her braid over her shoulder. “It’s not even sunrise.”
“I know,” Monica said. “But he’s a soldier. They always rise early. And he shouldn’t wait. Or leave before we wake.”
She didn’t mention her father. Or her brothers. Only Clark.
Martha noticed that. She noticed everything.
She squinted. “You want to go down there half sick, bruised, and sleepless, and cook breakfast for a man?”
Monica’s chin lifted slightly. “Yes, Mama.”
Martha blinked again.
“Well then.” She yawned. “Out of that nightgown first. You’re not wed yet. No one wants to be courted by a girl in flannel and socks with holes in ’em.”
“Yes, Mama,” Monica whispered, cheeks pink.
Martha flopped back against the pillow, already pulling her shawl over her own shoulders.
“I’ll be down directly. If you faint by the stove or burn your hand on the skillet, I’ll whip you myself.”
Monica nodded and slipped out. The door creaked shut behind her. From beneath the quilt, a grunt.
“You awake, old bear?” Martha murmured.
John rolled onto his side, blinking slow like a man surprised to still be alive.
“She just say she’s makin’ him breakfast?”
“She did.”
John rubbed a hand down his face. “What about the rest of us poor veterans? I marched barefoot through war and that girl never brought me coffee before daylight.”
“You never looked at her like she hung the moon.”
“I’m her father. That’d be concerning.”
Martha smacked him lightly. “Hush.”
John sighed, staring at the ceiling. “I tell you what, he better marry her now. She’s got that look. The one where she’s made up her mind and the rest of us are just furniture in the way.”
“She gets it from me.”
“She gets it from God. You just polished it.”
Martha smiled. Pulled the quilt higher. Rubbed her arms once.
“You worried?”
“No,” she said, honest. “But I don’t much like being second fiddle to a man who’s only just now brushing his teeth in my house.”
John chuckled. “I’ll take that as a sign she’s healing.”
Downstairs, the kitchen had already come to life. Martha moved slowly down the steps, her braid pinned, shawl drawn close. She hadn’t rushed—not because she doubted, but because she expected very little. She’ll dress, she thought. Maybe fetch a pan. Then she’ll wait for me like always.
For years, that had been the way of it. Monica was many things, sharp, tender, good, but mornings had never been her strength. Not with her lungs. Not with the body that sometimes shook too hard for its own bones. Martha had found her more than once curled at the hearth in a blanket, too tired to stand, pale as snow.
She turned the corner toward the kitchen. And stopped. Her breath caught—not sharply, but all the way down, like her lungs had just remembered how to be full. There stood Monica. Not waiting. Not slouched. Moving. And not like a fragile girl, no. She wore a soft blue dress Martha didn’t recognize. The hem was neat. The sleeves were rolled gently, just enough to show her slender wrists. Over it, her usual light green apron—already dusted with flour. Her hair had been brushed until it shone, tied back not in a braid, but with a simple ribbon.
The ribbon. Pink. Crooked. But there. The same one Clark had given her when she was five. The one she refused to take off for days. Wore to bed. Tied to the cat once. The one Martha had once hidden just to wash it, then hung it on the doorknob like a magic trick. And now, here it was again. Bold and soft in her hair. Like it had never left.
Martha’s gaze dropped. The bruise was full now, dark and angry across her daughter’s cheek. Her left eye was swollen nearly shut. Her face flushed, not from modesty but from fever. Her breathing too fast, too shallow.
And yet, there she was. Smiling. Softly. Calmly. Slicing bread with a steady hand. Butter was soft on the table. Fresh eggs waited in a bowl. Bacon lay neatly arranged, and the cracked teacup, the one Clark always used during harvest, sat beside a single place setting.
Just one.
Martha stared. Her hand slipped from the banister, resting against her chest. For a long moment, she didn’t speak. Then, quietly:
“You did all this?”
Monica looked up, startled. “Mama—I didn’t hear you.”
Martha stepped into the room.
“You did all this?”
Monica nodded. “I thought if I waited, he might be gone. Or think he wasn’t wanted.”
She looked down, slicing carefully. “He always made sure I had a plate when I was sick. Even when no one asked him to.”
Martha looked around.
“You didn’t mention your papa.”
Monica smiled faintly. “Papa always makes his own breakfast. And he already knows I love him.”
“And your brothers?”
“They’ll eat what’s left.”
Martha let out a small sound, half sigh, half laugh and reached up to gently fix the ribbon where it had bunched.
“That pink thing,” she murmured. “He gave it to you for no reason.”
“I looked sad,” Monica said. “You wouldn’t let me follow Daniel into the woods. He brought it the next day.”
Martha’s throat tightened.
“That ribbon’s older than most courtships.”
“I know.”
They stood there, just a moment.
Then Martha lifted her chin with a familiar glint.
“You’re flushed.”
“I’m all right.”
“You’re not. But I won’t stop you. Just don’t faint before the bacon’s done. Or I’ll make your brothers carry you back upstairs.”
“I won’t faint.”
“And next time,” she added, “set two plates. One for him, and one for your poor, neglected papa who’s been fighting wars beside Clark.”
Monica laughed, then winced. “I’ll set three.”
From the stairwell, John’s voice drifted down, dry as ever:
“Don’t bother on my account. I’ll just eat the peels. Like a dog.”
Monica laughed again, hand over her cheek.
Martha smirked toward the ceiling. “Hush, you great fool. You’ll wake the house.”
“Too late,” came the reply. “I woke up to the smell of my daughter in the kitchen and thought I’d died.”
Monica beamed.
Clark had risen before the sky knew it was morning. Old habits didn’t leave him, not the good ones, not the hard ones. His body still woke with the rhythm of cold campfire dawns, back when frost clung to boots and breath came out in fog. These days, no one asked him to dress by starlight but still, he did.
He’d splashed cold water over his face from the upstairs basin, run his fingers through his hair, and shrugged on his coat with that same quiet, tidy precision veterans and widowers always seem to carry. His boots were laced. Shirt tucked. Belt buckled. He moved like a man who didn’t want to wake a soul. And then, he smelled it.
Not the sleepy scent of late morning eggs or rushed bread but food with purpose. Bacon crisping just right. Coffee brewed deep and dark, the kind that said: I know how you take it.
His brow furrowed. The stairs creaked beneath his boots as he made his way down, drawn by the light spilling softly from the kitchen. He stepped into the doorway and stopped. She stood there. Not wrapped in blankets, not curled in flannel and socks but upright. Awake. Present.
A ribbon, that ribbon, sat slightly crooked in her hair, the same faded pink one he’d given her when she was five. She froze.
“Clark.”
His name fell from her lips like something sacred.
He blinked, and cleared his throat. “Force of habit.”
“Breakfast is nearly ready,” she said, smoothing a corner of the towel like it had insulted her.
He glanced around. Bread sliced. Bacon perfect. Eggs resting warm in the pan. His favorite chipped cup already filled, steam curling gently from the rim.
“You didn’t have to do all this.”
“You’re staying under this roof,” she replied softly. “I couldn’t let you go hungry.”
He smiled. “I wouldn’t’ve starved. You could’ve slept.”
“You wake early,” she said. “Soldiers do.”
He said nothing to that.
Her fingers twitched at her apron. Clark rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly seventeen again.
“Well… thank you,” he said, voice low. “It smells like someone wants me to live.”
“You’re welcome.”
They stood there too long. Not awkward, just full of something neither dared name.
And then—
A familiar grunt in the hall. John entered, coffee already in hand, and gave them a once over.
“Good Lord,” he muttered. “You two look like farmhands tryin’ to court behind the hay bales.”
Clark stepped back instinctively. “Morning, John.”
“Mmhmm.” John sipped his coffee. “I fought beside you through two winters, three campaigns, and a river of dysentery. Never saw you this bashful.”
Nadia bit back a smile.
“You look pretty this morning, darlin’,” her father added, patting her shoulder.
“Thank you, Papa.”
“You headed somewhere fancy? Revival? Governor’s ball?”
“No, Papa.”
“Huh. Could’ve sworn I walked into the mayor’s house.”
Nadia shook her head, grinning. Just then, the stairs creaked again.
Elias came first, shirt half tucked, hair flattened on one side. Daniel followed, boots scuffed, face drawn, the night’s shame still fresh in his eyes. They reached the kitchen, sniffed the air like hounds and then saw her. And stopped. Completely.
Elias blinked. Daniel leaned toward him. “Do we have guests?”
“She was sick yesterday,” Elias whispered back.
“I know she was sick.”
“She looks like she’s about to host a wedding breakfast.”
“I thought we weren’t inviting anyone until the banns were read.”
John’s dry voice floated through: “Show some respect. Your sister’s bruised and still did more before dawn than either of you on your wedding days.”
“She looks beautiful,” Elias said plainly, stepping forward. “Morning, sis.”
“Morning,” Nadia replied, sweet as anything.
Daniel stared a moment longer. “You did all this?”
“Yes.”
“For… Clark?”
She didn’t answer. Just smiled. Just enough.
Daniel exhaled. “Well, he better eat every damn bite.”
“Language,” Martha scolded from the hall, stepping in with her apron already tied. “Or you’ll be washing pans.”
Now the kitchen was full.
Clark stood to one side, still stunned.
And across from him, Nadia moved slowly, pale, bruised, tired. But radiant. Not a girl anymore. Not something fragile. A woman, flour on her hands, purpose in her steps, who had risen before the sun to feed the man she loved. They gathered at the table as the first light kissed the edges of the windows. The hearth crackled behind them.
Everyone settled, mugs in hand, plates full, except for Clark and Nadia, who hovered, both pretending they weren’t waiting on each other. Clark sat across from Daniel, beside John. Nadia slid gently into the bench, moving as if the world might shatter if she shifted too fast. But her face despite everything, was bright. Her bruise had deepened, true. But her right eye sparkled. Her cheeks were alive with color. And when she leaned forward to pour Clark a second cup, her hands trembling slightly did not spill a drop.
“You don’t have to—” he began.
“I want to,” she said, just for him.
He paused.
Smiled.
And it was that smile that unguarded, boyish, grateful smile, that made everyone else stop. It was the kind of smile a man forgets he still owns after war and burial and long winters alone. And it belonged only to her.
Across the table, Elias squinted at his plate.
“Why does his breakfast look like it came from Westville’s hotel,” he muttered, “and mine looks like a punishment?”
“Because,” Martha said without looking up, “you’ve got a wife at home. Go let her cook for you.”
Daniel snorted into his mug.
“Look at it,” Elias whined. “His toast has layers. The bacon’s shaped like heart. His egg yolk’s still whole. Mine looks like it was stepped on by a mule.”
Nadia ignored him. She leaned toward Clark again. “Is it warm enough?”
“Perfect.”
“Too much pepper?”
“No,” he said softly. “Just right.”
John gagged loudly into his coffee.
“Oh Lord. This is worse than when your mother cried over a pear tart while pregnant with Daniel.”
“Papa,” Nadia said, flushed.
Elias reached across the table, fingers drifting toward the small saucer by Clark’s plate.
“Is that jam?”
“Don’t—” Daniel warned.
Smack.
Nadia’s hand came down on his knuckles with a sound like a whipcrack.
Elias yelped. “Ow!”
“That’s his.”
“His?”
“I made it,” she said. “There’s only enough for one. Toast, then butter, then jam. Just enough to color it, not too sweet. Drizzle of wildflower honey. Not clover. He doesn’t like clover.”
The table fell silent. Even Daniel blinked.
John muttered into his mug, “Well I’ll be.”
Clark stared at her like she’d read him out loud.
“I didn’t even know I liked it that way,” he said, hushed.
“You always make it like that,” Nadia replied. “Even when no one’s looking.”
And the way she said it, quiet, certain, cut deeper than anything else ever could. She’d been watching. All these years. Every quiet gesture. Every preference. Every bite. Clark reached for his toast, bit once, and nearly folded under the weight of it.
John grunted. “If you two start holdin’ hands, I’m throwin’ myself out the window.”
“You’re not near a window,” Martha said.
“Then I’ll find one. And then I’ll jump.”
Daniel shook his head. “I’m not even mad anymore. I’m just confused.”
Elias looked at his dry toast and sighed. “I just wanted jam.”
But Nadia didn’t hear them anymore. She was watching Clark. And he, despite everything he’d carried, looked, for once, like he’d never seen sorrow in his life. Only her.
＊🌸•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚🎀 ˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙🌸˚＊
If you made it this far, thank you. Truly
