Page 21 of Rescue

Jon shifts beside me, reaching for his shirt on the back of a chair. “I… I should apologise,” he says, hesitant, almost shy.

I pause, my shirt halfway up my arms, and glance at him. “For what?” I ask lightly. “For that?” I let out a soft laugh. “There’s nothing to apologise for.”

He rubs the back of his neck, his movements awkward. “I didn’t exactly plan for this to happen. And... I wasn’t exactly prepared.”

It takes me a second to realise what he means, and when I do, my cheeks flush. “Oh,” I say quickly, pulling my jeans into place. “It’s fine. I’m on the pill.”

He exhales a little too loudly, relief flickering across his features. “Good. That’s… good. It’s just… I haven’t…” He hesitates, his words faltering. “It’s been a while.”

I bite my lip, offering a small smile as I smooth out my shirt. “You’re not the only one.” My voice is softer now, the vulnerability in the admission surprising even me. “So, no need to worry. We’re… fine.”

We move around the kitchen, collecting the evidence of our spontaneity—his jeans rolled up on the floor, my bra discarded near the oven. There’s a strange kind of intimacy in the quiet movements, like we’re silently acknowledging the weight of what just happened.

Jon is about to step toward the door when he stops abruptly, turning back to me. His gaze locks with mine, his expression unexpectedly open. “Thank you,” he says simply.

I blink, caught off guard. “For what?”

“For… this. For letting me forget for a little while.” He hesitates, his voice dipping into something heavier. “For the first time in… I don’t even know how long, I felt something other than guilt or numbness.”

The rawness of his words sends a pang through me, and I take a small step toward him. “You don’t need to thank me for that,” I say softly. “I’ve never… done anything like this with a guest before. But with you… I don’t know. It just feels… different.”

His lips twitch into the faintest hint of a smile, though there’s still something guarded in his eyes. “Different, huh?”

I nod, a little smile tugging at my lips. “I’d be open to… more of the same… whilst you are here. If you are.” I glance toward the ceiling, mindful of the third person in the cottage that thankfully has slept through all of the noise we made. “Just as long as Layla doesn’t find out.”

His smile grows, warmer now, but still understated. “Agreed.”

We share a last kiss, and for a brief moment, the air between us feels lighter. But as Jon finally slips out of the kitchen, leaving me standing there in the dim light, I can’t help but worry if it all really is such a good idea.

Nancy breezes into the kitchen, dropping a paper bag on the counter like it’s a peace offering. “Morning, sis! Tell me you’ve got the kettle on. I’m parched.”

“It’s on,” I reply with a smirk. “I knew you’d show up and expect tea. You’re predictable like that.”

“Predictable? Excuse me, I spent yesterday afternoon trekking over hills and navigating muddy footpaths. I am anything but predictable.” She flops into one of the chairs at the oak table, dramatically brushing a bit of invisible dirt off her leggings. “I’m an adventurer.”

“Adventurer, sure,” I tease, setting out mugs. “How was the first walk with the ramblers?”

“Let’s not talk about it,” she says, helping herself to one of Layla’s colouring pencils that’s been left on the table and doodling absentmindedly on a napkin. “Let’s just say, the farting dog was the best bit of the day.”

I laugh, shaking my head as I pour boiling water into the teapot. “Poor you. The trials of leadership.”

“Don’t mock me.” She points the pencil at me in mock indignation. “And anyway, what about you? How is my favourite niece and the mysterious Mr Jon Peterson?”

“She was thrilled about her spelling test. Jon’s off on one of his long walks, so it’s been quiet,” I reply, sitting down across from her.

Nancy perks up at the mention of Jon’s name, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, has Mr Broody gone adventuring? Let me guess—he’s storming through the Dales like Heathcliff, brooding about life?”

I roll my eyes. “He’s not that dramatic.”

“No? I bet he’s off pondering the meaning of existence while the wind dramatically whips through his hair. Probably reciting poetry about the futility of it all.”

I can’t help but snort at the image she’s conjured. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Guilty as charged,” she says, smirking. “But come on, what’s he like? He’s been here long enough now. Brooding or not, there’s got to be something interesting about him.”

I shrug, aiming for casual. “He’s… fine. Keeps to himself mostly.”

“Fine?” Nancy leans forward, her grin widening. “Oh, Abby. You’re terrible at lying. What’s the deal with you two?”

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