Page 44 of Kellan & Emmett
Last night. His mouth. The weight of twenty years collapsing into a single kiss.
And the one truth I couldn’t outrun: last time he kissed me, he left me.
The clock over the buffet ticked too loud. Sophia slipped in a little later, apron already tied, and thank God for her—she floated between tables with that easy smile that made guests feel like this place was family: a home away from home. Guests drifted in, murmuring good mornings, spooning yogurt into bowls, asking about the weather. I nodded, smiled, answered, but every second my ears strained for a sound upstairs that never came. Every minute Kelly didn’t appear stretched taut, humming under my ribs like a wire pulled too tight.
My chest hurt with the waiting, with the fear that I already knew the ending. He’d kissed me. He’d realized what that meant. Andhe’d packed himself up in silence the way he had twenty years ago.
Then he came through the doorway. Real, solid, filling the frame like he always had. Dressed for camp: loose shorts, rec T-shirt, whistle bouncing against his chest. His hair was damp at the temples, proof he’d showered—but the shadows under his eyes gave him away. He hadn’t slept, not really. And God help me, I wanted to believe it was for the same reason I hadn’t—that the kiss had kept him restless, rewinding every second of it the way I had.
But the doubt was there, sharp as ever. Maybe his silence meant regret. Maybe the shadows in his eyes weren’t from wanting, but from wishing it had never happened. The thought cut clean, but I couldn’t look away. I’d waited half my life for the chance to kiss him again. I didn’t know if I could survive finding out he wished I hadn’t.
“Morning,” he said, offering it to the room at large, then to me, a little softer. Polite. Mannered. The way grown men carry themselves, even when the air between them is thick with everything unsaid.
He smiled easily for the guests who greeted him, gave a nod to Sophia as she chatted with one of the guests, but the smile never quite reached his eyes. His jaw was too tight for that.
At the sideboard, he poured himself coffee, steam curling up past his cheek. He lifted the cup, and just before he sipped, he glanced at me. Quick smile, small, fleeting. Enough to freeze my breath.
“Sorry I wasn’t down earlier,” he said quietly. “Overslept.” A pause, then, lower still: “I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”
I cleared my throat, tried to match his even tone. “Don’t worry about it.”
He nodded, set the cup down just long enough to sling his bag over his shoulder. Another swallow of coffee, then he straightened. “Heading to the field. Have a good day.”
“You too,” I managed.
And just like that, he was out the door—present, but already gone. Somehow, that twisted tighter than silence.
The door shut behind him, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Lighter, because he hadn’t disappeared. He’d walked down those stairs, looked me in the eye, even managed a smile. But heavier too, because he’d left anyway. Not gone-gone, not like before, but gone enough that the space he left behind pressed on my chest.
*****
By the time the last plates were cleared and the coffee urn drained, the inn had settled back into its quiet hum. The Bobcombes had gone off to the antique shops, the honeymooners had set out with a picnic basket, and the clatter of breakfast had given way to the softer sounds of a place catching its breath. I wiped down the counter, stacked the clean mugs back into their neat rows, and tried not to think about the way the morning had dragged without him.
The front door opened, sunlight spilling in before it shut again. Then he was there—Kellan—stepping inside like the heat of the field had followed him in. His T-shirt clung to him, damp at the chest, a darker shade of gray where sweat had pressed the cotton tight. His hair was mussed, and his skin held the flush of sun and exertion.
“Hey,” he said, voice low, almost casual. Just a greeting, but it landed like a weight in my chest.
“Hey,” I answered, slower, because I was too busy looking at him—too aware of the way he filled the space.
He moved to the counter, reached automatically for a glass from the rack, and filled it at the pitcher I’d left waiting. It should’ve felt ordinary. He’d been here nearly a month; I’d told him to treat the kitchen like his own. But watching him tip the glass back, his throat working as he drank, it didn’t feel ordinary at all.
When he set the empty glass down, I nudged the pitcher closer. His hand brushed mine as he reached for it again, and that brief scrape of skin sparked hotter than the noon sun outside. My stomach flipped, stupid and eager, and I told myself not to read into it—but then I saw the way his jaw ticked, the way his eyes cut away too fast, and I knew he’d felt it too.[6]
He set the glass down softer this time, like he’d caught himself. For a second, we just stood there, the faint hum of the fridge and the tick of the old wall clock filling the space between us.
“Have you eaten yet?” I asked, because it was safer than saying everything else pressing at my chest.
He shook his head, dragging the damp hem of his shirt away from his skin. “I didn't have time. Kids ran me ragged.” His mouth curved faintly—half pride, half exhaustion.
“You can’t keep doing that on an empty stomach,” I said, already reaching for a plate. “They’ll eat you alive if you don’t keep your strength up.” I spooned out a heap of cheesy grits, added a biscuit split open with a thick slice of ham, and set it in front of him. “Sit.”
Something in me eased when he obeyed, lowering himself onto the stool like he belonged there. He ate fast at first, hunger carrying him through, then slowed, chewing more carefully, like only now realizing how hollow he’d been.
I leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching too long. Watching the sunburn at the bridge of his nose, the way his lashes dipped when he blinked. I felt a strange, quiet relief—like making sure he ate had settled something deeper in me than I wanted to admit.
He reached for a napkin and wiped his lips. “Those kids,” he said finally, voice low but edged with fondness. “They’ve got more energy than sense. I’m pretty sure I ran more today than I did in my last season.”
I huffed out a laugh, leaning heavier against the counter. “I guess they don’t give you much slack.”
