Page 42 of King of Praise

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Home.Such a loaded word.

This was meant to be temporary. Yet somehow I’ve settled in, claimed this space as my own. My baking supplies line the shelves and my recipe cards are tucked into a wooden box by the spice rack. Little touches that make it feel less like a refuge and more like somewhere I belong.

Of course, those domestic comforts come with complications—specifically, a six-foot-four brooding, gray-bearded complication named Micah Hunt.

My hands falter briefly in their rhythm as thoughts of Micah intrude. Things between us have remained careful, guarded. He’s still unfailingly kind, attentive to my needs, vigilant about my safety. But the walls between us have solidified rather than softened. The almost-kiss lingers between us, impossible to forget.

I catch myself watching him when he thinks I’m not looking. The gentle way he scratches Powder behind the ears. The intense focus in his dark eyes when he reads in the evenings. The shadow of sadness that crosses his face sometimes when he believes himself unobserved. I keep thinking how he’s nothing like thecold, unfeeling monster Lucas described. Nothing like the man I expected when I first sought refuge in his apartment.

The sound of tires crunching on gravel yanks me from my musings. Frowning, I glance at the clock. It’s barely past three in the afternoon, hours before Micah typically returns from Columbus. Something must have happened.

Anxiety tightens my chest as I wipe my hands on my apron and move to the window. Micah’s truck comes to a stop outside, and even through the glass I can see the tension radiating from his broad frame as he exits the vehicle.

When he enters, a dark cloud of frustration surrounds him. His jaw is tight, movements stiff. The change from his usual controlled demeanor sends warning signals through my body—old instincts from living with Lucas’s volatile moods.

But Micah isn’t Lucas. I have to remind myself of that.

“Everything okay?” I ask carefully.

His response is a noncommittal grunt, his gaze avoiding mine as he moves past me to retrieve his fishing rod from its place in the corner rather than take his coat off and settle into his usual routine. Without explanation, he disappears outside, leaving me to wonder what triggered this retreat into silence.

Through the window, I watch him make his way down to the lake, broad shoulders hunched as though carrying an invisible burden. I don’t know what he thinks he’s doing. It’s too cold for fishing. Nothing will bite.

Something protective stirs in my chest. This man who has done so much to shield me, is now clearly wrestling with his own demons.

Let him be,I tell myself.Everyone needs space sometimes.

Still, worry tugs at me as I return to my baking. Whatever drove him home early, whatever weighs on him so heavily—I wish he felt he could share it. But our relationship, whateverit is, exists in a strange liminal space. More than protector and protected, less than … what? What exactly do I want us to be?

I channel my concern into action, the way I always have. Another batch of cookies goes into the oven. The bread dough gets shaped and set to rise. I pull chicken and vegetables from the fridge and begin assembling a proper dinner.

Powder winds around my ankles as I work, occasionally batting my apron strings. Her presence helps keep the darker thoughts at bay. Helps me focus on the simple pleasure of creating something with my hands, of filling this space with warmth and good smells and the promise of comfort.

The afternoon light shifts, shadows lengthening across the cabin floor. Through the window, Micah’s silhouette still hovers by the lake. He hasn’t moved much, though it’s far too cold for any fish to bite. Whatever demons he’s wrestling with, they must be significant to keep him out there so long.

I set the small table with care with the nicest plates I can find in the cabinets, cloth napkins, even a small vase with dried flowers. It’s probably too much, too domestic, too … something. But the urge to create some semblance of normalcy, to offer whatever comfort I can through this simple act of caring, overrides my self-consciousness.

The chicken roasts slowly, its savory scent mingling with fresh bread and sweet spices. I’ve probably gone overboard with the baking—sourdough cooling on the windowsill, cinnamon rolls glazed and waiting, cookies stored in tins, apple cobbler warming in the stove.

As twilight approaches, I stoke the fire and turn on the lamps, creating pools of warmth in the gathering darkness. The cabin feels almost magical in this light—cozy and welcoming, far removed from the complications that plague us in the outside world.

For a moment, I can almost pretend this is real—that I’m simply a woman preparing dinner for … for what? My protector? My father-in-law? The man I’m increasingly drawn to despite every rational argument against it?

But no matter what I tell myself, there are no rational arguments to be made to change the way I feel about him.

The cracklingfireplace casts dancing shadows across the cabin walls as I watch Micah through the kitchen window. He’s been out by the lake for hours, his broad frame a dark silhouette against the gray winter landscape. The fishing rod in his hands seems more prop than tool—an excuse for solitude rather than any real attempt at catching anything in the frigid waters.

Should I go to him?

The question has nagged me all day as I channeled my anxiety into baking and then cooking.

Something happened in Columbus today. Something bad enough to drive him home hours early and radiating frustration. The urge to comfort him battles with my understanding of his need for space. After years with Lucas, where every moment required hypervigilance about his moods, it’s strange to respect someone else’s desire for solitude rather than fear it.

Powder winds around my ankles, her soft meow drawing my attention downward. I bend to scratch behind her ears, smiling as she arches into my touch.

“He’ll come in when he’s ready,” I say, more to myself than the cat. “Sometimes people just need space to think.”

The words feel hollow, echoing off the cabin’s wooden walls. Space to think is one thing, but sitting by a frozen lake inthe dark of night seems excessive. Still, I resist the impulse to intervene.