Page 84 of Dissonance

“It’s incredible here. So quiet.” She gestures around. “Like the rest of the world’s just…gone.”

“Aye.” I step in behind her, my mouth finding that spot where her shoulder meets her neck, lingering a second longer than necessary.

She leans back into me, relaxed in a way I haven’t seen nearly enough.

“No emails, no calls, nothing needing my urgent attention every five minutes,” she muses.

“Tragic,” I say dryly, hand curling around her waist.

She huffs a laugh, tilting her head to look up at me. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Maybe,” I say, pressing a kiss below her ear. “Or maybe I just knew you wouldn’t give yourself a break if we stayed in LA.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “So, running away to a remote cabin in a Canadian forest was the only option?”

“Aye.”

She laughs again, light and easy, and some of the tension I’ve been carrying since the last appointment leaves my shoulders. I let my hand drop from her waist as she turns, taking in the room.

“So,” I ask, watching her instead of the space, “what’s the verdict?”

She looks around again. The ceilings are high, beams running the length of them, darkened with age. The walls are rough in places where I’ve started stripping them back, layers of old paint coming off in sheets to expose the original timber underneath. The windows run almost floor to ceiling along the back wall, the stream just visible through the lowest branches when the light hits right. A scarred wooden island sits between the kitchen and living area, solid and immoveable, there since long before I was.

It’s a work in progress. The banister’s loose at the bottom of the staircase, furniture that came with the sale, fireplace that hasn’t been lit in years.

“The ceilings,” she says, head tilting back, eyes wide as she looks up. “People pay a fortune to fake that kind of age, and you’ve got it for free.”

“It needs a lot of work.”

“I don’t think it does.” She sets her mug on the island, pressing her palm flat against the far wall. “This could come out, or most of it. You’d double the sunlight in here in the mornings.” She moves toward an alcove beside the stairs, standing inside it, arms spread wide. “Recessed lighting in here. A chair, big cushions, blankets.” Turning, she gestures toward the windows. “And nothing in front of those. Ever. The whole point of being here is out there.”

I lean against the wall, arms folded, filing away every word. She heads out the back door, and I watch her through the glass. Her cardigan slips off one shoulder, hand still resting on her bump, the last of the sun glinting off her glasses.

A strand of hair escapes her ponytail and lifts in the breeze, her eyes closing as she breathes it all in. She’s not wearing any makeup and has no idea what she looks like standing there.

So fucking beautiful.

She comes back inside, pulling the door shut, gaze drifting up toward the loft.

“Bedroom’s up there?”

“Aye.”

She nods, moving through the space again, trailing her fingers along the window frame.

“Don’t touch the floors,” she says, almost to herself. “They’re rustic the way they are. You sand them down, you’ll lose it.”

I file that away too.

She moves to the fireplace, crouching slightly to look inside. “Stone surround, not brick. Something that looks like it’s always been here.”

Straightening, her gaze travels across the whole space one last time before stopping suddenly. A self-conscious laugh escapes her, and she glances down, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Sorry.” She shakes her head. “It’s your place. I’m overstepping.”

“You’re not.”

“Lockie—”