Chapter 1 – Eric
I woke to a bright, cloudless morning and the strange, immediate awareness that I wasn’t alone.
For a few seconds, I just lay there, staring up at the ceiling while the sunlight spilled across the room in pale gold bands. The air felt warmer than it should have, touched by the kind of softness that doesn’t belong to an ordinary morning. My blanket was half-tangled around my legs, and the bed beside me was empty—but not cold. There was still warmth there. Still the faint impression of someone having slept beside me.
Emily.
The memory came back in fragments, the way dreams sometimes do when you try too hard to hold onto them. Her crying. The way she clung to me like she was afraid she’d fall apart if she let go. The kiss that followed—soft at first, then desperate, then something quieter. After that, everything blurred together into heat and breath and the unfamiliar feeling of finally letting my body stop resisting comfort.
We’d slept together.
I knew that much.
What unsettled me wasn’t forgetting.
It was the fear that I might be remembering it wrong.
“Sweet Yoba…” I groaned, dragging a hand over my face. “My head.”
So much had happening way too fast. Too much emotion, too little sleep, and the kind of intimacy I still didn’t know how to carry without turning it into guilt.
For a moment I stayed still, listening.
The farmhouse was quiet except for the soft creak of floorboards and the distant rustle of movement outside. A breeze slipped through the window, carrying in the smell of warm soil, cut stems, and summer fruit. Blueberries, maybe. Grapes. Spice berry.
Then—
“Eric? Ah—you’re awake!”
Emily’s voice drifted in from outside, light and easy. A second later she stepped into the room, already dressed, sunlight clinging to her like she’d brought it in with her. Her hair caught the morning glow in a way that made everything feel strangely unreal, as if I’d woken into the softened aftermath of something I hadn’t fully earned.
“I noticed your blueberries were ready,” she said, smiling. “So I harvested them for you. I didn’t touch your forageables.”
She said it so casually that for a second I just stared at her.
She looked… fine.
More than fine, really. Relaxed. Bright. Not fake exactly—Emily rarely felt fake—but so much lighter than she had been last night that it made me wonder if I’d imagined how badly she’d been hurting.
I sat up slowly, the sheet slipping from my chest as I tried to orient myself. The room still carried traces of her—fabric, perfume, warmth, something floral and faintly dusty from the fields. It made my stomach twist in a way I couldn’t quite name.
“Emily…” I began, my voice still rough. “What happened last night?”
She tilted her head.
“You were so upset,” I said. “And now you seem… fine.”
She looked at me for a moment—not confused, not defensive. Just calm. Then her smile softened into something gentler.
“I just needed to vent,” she said simply. “I feel a lot better now.”
That was all.
No awkwardness. No second-guessing. No visible need to dissect what had happened between us and assign it some careful meaning before morning could continue. She said it like the night had been painful, yes—but real. Necessary. Something she didn’t regret.
And then, as naturally as if we’d done this a hundred times before, she turned back toward the garden.
“I’ll be outside,” she added lightly. “You should wake up before you try standing. You look a little dazed.”
Before I could answer, she stepped out again.
I stared after her, listening to the door ease shut behind her.
I wasn’t sure whether I felt relieved that she seemed alright… or embarrassed for having worried in the first place.
Maybe both.
Because part of me was glad she could move on so easily.
And part of me hated that I couldn’t.
I drifted over to the TV more out of habit than intention.
The forecast droned on in that same calm, familiar voice—rain tomorrow, good spirits today, pancakes on the Queen of Sauce. Ordinary things. Comforting things. The kind of little routines that used to make the farm feel manageable.
This morning, they felt strangely far away.
Like background noise from someone else’s life.
I turned the set off and stepped outside again. Emily was near the edge of the field, gathering grapes, spice berries, and sweet peas into her arms with the same easy care she seemed to give everything when she wasn’t trying too hard. Morning light caught in her hair. The whole scene should have felt peaceful.
Then I saw the mailbox.
I opened it without thinking.
Hey Kid,
My throat’s dry as a desert bone. I’m real thirsty for a pale ale. You got one?
– Pam
My jaw tightened.
It wasn’t just the request.
It was how normal it sounded.
How automatic.
Like the letter could’ve been written a week ago. Like Penny’s pain, the Town Hall meeting, the Luau—none of it had touched her at all. Or worse, like it had, and this was the only answer she knew how to give.
For a second, all I could picture was that trailer. Dark. Quiet. No movement. No sign of Penny. No sign of Pam at the Saloon either.
Just absence.
“Hey, Eric! I got some of your forageables!” Emily beamed as she walked over, only to stop when she saw my face. “What’s wrong?”
I handed her the letter.
The brightness in her expression faded almost immediately.
“Oh…” she murmured.
I looked past her, out toward the shipping bin, the field, the road beyond the farm. Anywhere but the paper in her hand.
“I really hope she hasn’t hurt herself,” I said aloud. “People don’t go to the Saloon just to have fun. Not really.”
Emily was quiet for a moment, still holding the letter.
Then she exhaled softly. “The Saloon makes me miserable sometimes,” she admitted. “I like some of the people there, but most nights it just feels like I’m watching everyone drown a little slower.”
I glanced at her.
She looked down at the letter.
“Wiping the same counter. Refilling the same glasses. Listening to the same sadness over and over again,” she said. “You start to wonder if anyone’s actually getting better—or if they’re all just learning how to fall apart more politely.”
That sat with me.
Because it sounded true.
Emily hesitated, then folded the letter and handed it back to me.
“I stayed because I thought I had to,” she said. “For Haley. For the house. For stability, I guess.” She gave a small, tired smile. “But Haley’s moving out for classes now, and I don’t even know if that place feels like mine anymore.”
I slipped the letter into my pocket.
“Well,” I said carefully, “some people there are decent company.”
Her smile softened a little.
“They are,” she said. “That’s what makes it hard. I don’t hate the people. I just don’t think I belong in that kind of sadness forever.”
She turned then, looking out across the farm.
The crops. The paths. The edges of the field where wild things still grew where they wanted. The place was messy in ways I understood and alive in ways the Saloon never was.
“But here…” she said quietly, almost to herself. “Here I can breathe.”
Her eyes brightened again, though this time more gently.
“Maybe someday you could get a barn,” she said. “Sheep, maybe. Or rabbits. I could run a little tailoring business right here. Mend clothes, dye fabric, make things that actually feel beautiful.”
The way she said it wasn’t practical.
It wasn’t even fully a plan.
It was a hope.
And somehow that made it feel more real.
I smiled despite myself. “When I can afford it.”
She laughed softly. “Fair point.”
Then she nudged my arm with her shoulder, light and affectionate.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go to my place. I’ll cook.”
I followed her down the path, the folded letter still sitting heavily in my pocket.
And yet, as we walked, something in me felt strangely light.
For the first time in a long while, the future didn’t feel heavy.
And that almost scared me more than when it did.
When we went into the house, Haley wasn’t there. She’d probably gone to Alex’s.
Emily glanced toward the empty room, then let out a soft sigh.
“Well,” she said, “I guess that makes two of us.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that.
She moved around the kitchen with an ease that made the place feel warmer than it had any right to. Leftover batter hissed softly when it hit the pan. The smell of butter and sweet flour filled the room, simple and domestic in a way that felt almost disorienting after everything that had happened the night before. Considering how erratic my eating had been lately, it felt grounding—almost unreal—to sit down to a real breakfast instead of shoving something into my mouth between chores or mine levels.
“I really wish I had a kitchen,” I muttered.
Emily laughed quietly as she flipped a pancake.
“You will someday,” she said. “I can guarantee it. Maybe then I’ll cook for you at your place.”
I smiled faintly.
She set a plate down in front of me, then took her own seat across the table. For a moment neither of us spoke. The morning light poured through the window, catching the edge of her hair, the table, the steam rising from the pancakes.
It should have felt normal.
Instead, it felt fragile.
I stared down at my plate for a few seconds, then spoke before I could lose my nerve.
“Emily… do you feel like I crossed a line last night?”
She blinked, genuinely confused.
“What do you mean?”
I looked away.
At first the memories came in pieces again—broken and uneven, more feeling than sequence. The sound of her voice going soft when she said my name. The way she had looked at me like she was waiting for me to pull away, and the relief in her face when I didn’t. Her hands at the back of my shirt. My own heartbeat, loud and clumsy in my ears.
Then the rest followed.
The kissing.
Not rushed. Not greedy. Just warm. Slow at first, almost uncertain, until something in both of us gave way.
The feeling of her body pressed against mine. Her head against my chest. The warmth of her breath against my neck. The way my hands had trembled when I touched her, not because I didn’t want to, but because I did—and because wanting something that gentle felt more frightening than anything in the mines ever had.
I remembered the moment my body stopped fighting itself.
That was the part I couldn’t shake.
Not desire.
Not guilt.
Relief.
The way my muscles had gone loose one by one beneath her hands. The way the tension I carried everywhere—through the farm, through town, through every stupid ladder in those caves—had slipped without me noticing until it was already gone. Like for one brief stretch of time, I didn’t have to hold anything up. Didn’t have to be careful. Didn’t have to endure.
I just had to be there.
And somehow, that frightened me more in the morning than it had the night before.
“When you’re with me, I can rest,” I said quietly. “And part of me is afraid that means I leaned on you too much.”
Emily’s expression softened, though she didn’t look surprised.
“Eric… you didn’t take anything from me,” she said gently. “I chose to be with you. I was lonely too.”
I stared at the table.
“I don’t know why that still makes me feel like I did something wrong.”
She got up from her chair and moved beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of her before she even touched me. Then she cupped my face and gently turned me toward her.
“I chose you,” she said again, firmer this time.
She waited until I met her eyes.
“And yet it feels like you don’t want to let yourself be happy.”
My throat tightened.
“Why does it matter to you if I am?”
Emily thought for a moment. When she answered, her voice was soft, but it didn’t waver.
“Because you see me for who I am,” she said. “I don’t have to explain myself when I’m with you.”
Her thumb brushed lightly against my cheek.
“And I think you’re scared because I see you too.”
I shuddered.
She was right, and I hated how exposed that made me feel.
“I just remember how safe it felt,” I admitted. “How warm.”
Not just her body.
Not just the bed.
Everything.
The silence. The closeness. The way she hadn’t demanded anything from me except honesty.
Emily’s face softened even more.
“I know,” she murmured. “I was falling apart too.”
For a while we stayed like that—her hand against my face, my breath slowly evening out, the breakfast growing cooler on the table while the morning settled around us.
Then Pedro fluttered into the room.
“Pedro!” Emily laughed, immediately brightening. She grabbed an apple and set it out for him. I watched him hop toward it, absurdly cheerful, and felt some of the pressure inside my chest loosen just from the normalcy of it.
I let out a quiet breath.
“I should go,” I said finally. “There’s… a lot to do.”
“The mines,” she sighed.
I nodded.
Her expression dimmed just slightly.
“Sometimes I wish you didn’t have to be the only one going down there.”
I stood, leaned down, and kissed her.
It was gentler than the night before. Less desperate. Somehow that made it feel even more dangerous.
“Someday I won’t be,” I said.
And then I left.
