Page 77 of What Remains

Or perhaps, somewhere between home and Colorado, this quiet, broken man had become the safest place she knew.

Her trembling fingers found his forearm first, tracing the worn fabric of his sleeve. Then, almost shyly, she slid closer. The moment her shoulder brushed his chest, his arm came around her carefully, as though he feared she might shatter. He drew her in, wrapping both arms around her until she rested securely against him.

The embrace held nothing possessive, nothing demanding.

It offered only shelter.

Her forehead rested against the worn fabric of his jacket, and beneath it, she heard the steady rhythm of his heartbeat: strong, unwavering. She clutched the front of his coat with both hands as another sob escaped her.

“I miss him,” she whispered, barely audible.

“I know,” he answered, his voice thick. “I miss her.”

“I wasn’t supposed to do life without him.”

“I know.”

“He was supposed to watch Layla grow up.” Her shoulders shook again. “He was supposed to walk her down the isle.” A broken laugh slipped through her tears. “He would’ve cried when she graduated.”

“I know.”

“I couldn’t remember his voice today.” The confession brokeinside her, and she squeezed her eyes shut. “I tried. I tried to hear it, and… and I couldn’t.” Fresh tears soaked into his jacket. “I’m scared one day I’ll forget him completely.”

A shudder went through him.

He made a rough, pained sound deep in his chest—a grief that needed no translation. He tightened his hold on her, pulling her closer, as if he could physically keep her memories from slipping away.

“You won’t,” he said, his voice low. “You carry him every day.”

She shook her head against his chest. “It doesn’t seem like enough.”

“It never will,” his own voice nearly gave out. “But it still matters.”

Slowly, Josie recognized the contradiction she now inhabited. She sat there, crying over her husband—the man she had loved with every piece of herself, the father of her child, the man whose absence had carved a hole so deep she doubted it would ever close.

And yet, here she remained, curled against another man, finding comfort in the strength of his arms and the steadiness of his heartbeat beneath her ear.

She found something else too, something she’d worked very hard not to name during all those miles on the road: the way her eyes sought him out across camp, the way his voice settled her when nothing else could.

Attraction.

The realization flooded her with such sharp guilt it stole her breath. What kind of woman grieved one man while wanting another?

She tried to pull away. “I shouldn’t…” Her voice cracked. “This isn’t fair to Mark.”

Seth’s arms loosened immediately, without hesitation or hurt. “If you want me to let go, I will.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t answer. Instead, she let herself fall apart one final time, and the last of the grief she’d held back for so long poured out of her in shaking breaths and quiet sobs until there remained simply… nothing left.

Only exhaustion.

Only silence.

Only the two of them, breathing in the stillness of the old barn.

Then something shifted between them—not suddenly, not dramatically, but slowly and certainly, the way a door that has always stuck will finally, one day, simply open.

Seth moved first. His hands settled gently beneath her arms.