Page 2 of Almost Ours
Inside, the air smelled faintly of dust and cold air. The floors creaked under each careful step as I nudged the door shut behind us. Warmth hadn’t settled into the space yet, and the chill clung like a held breath.
A couch sagged in the corner, floral cushions faded and warm. I didn’t want him waking up cramped and aching in the morning. “Come on, buddy,” I whispered, brushing his shoulder. “Let’s get you into bed.”
Connor stirred, groggy but compliant, sliding from my arms. I kept a hand on his back as he trudged toward the staircase left of the entry. Despite the wooden steps groaning with each slow climb, we made it to the top without slipping.
The hallway was narrow, paint chipped along the doorframes. I nudged open the first bedroom on the right–small, simple, furnished with mismatched pieces that had probably been here since the nineties. A twin bed sat against one wall, beneath a faded patchwork quilt. Across from it, a small wooden dresser topped with a dusty lamp and a chipped ceramic bowl. The closet door hung slightly ajar.
I flicked on the light. It buzzed before casting a dull yellow glow over the space.
“It’s not much,” I murmured, guiding him to the bed, “but it’s ours.”
Connor didn’t answer, still half-asleep. He collapsed onto the mattress without getting under the covers. I pulled an extra blanket from the foot of the bed and tucked it around him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
I lingered in the doorway, watching his small frame rise and fall under the blanket. Safe. Asleep. Here.
The floor creaked under my feet as I backed into the hall and made my way downstairs, gripping the railing with one hand, my other trailing along the wall. The silence pressed in–not the dangerous quiet I’d grown used to, listening for the next slammed door–but a stillness I might be able to learn to live with.
Back in the living room, I sank into the threadbare couch, the cushions sighing beneath me. The weight of the night–of every choice that led us here–settled heavy in my bones. Tomorrow would bring questions I didn’t have answers to; how to pay the bills, how to explain our sudden arrival, how to make sure Reid never found us.
But tonight, for the first time in a long, long time, I let myself believe in the possibility of something better.
Because sometimes, the hardest escapes lead to the safest of havens. And in this quiet snow blanketed town, I was determined to find mine.
The next morningdawned bright and cold, sunlight bouncing off the fresh blanket of snow that had fallen overnight. I moved through the motions, pulling Connor’s coat from the hook by the door and searching for the gloves we’d already misplaced.
On my way back to the front room, I caught sight of myself in the mirror by the door.
For a second, I didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me.
Blonde hair pulled into a low, messy braid. Prominent cheekbones, sharper than I remembered. A faint bruise still shadowed the curve of one cheek–barely visible now, though I could still feel it. Still remember how it got there. My green eyes, once so bright–so much like Connor’s–looked dull and tired, ringed with shadows from too many nights spent half-awake, ears turned to every noise.
As I leaned closer, new bruises began to bloom in the glass’s reflection–dark finger-shaped marks stark against the pale skin of my throat. My stomach twisted. I lifted a trembling hand to trace them, stopping short, the memory of his grip still searing in my skin. Instead, I reached for the scarf on the handrailand wrapped it snugly around my neck, covering the evidence. Hiding it–like I always did.
I drew in a breath, and turned away.
Connor was bundled into his thick coat, gloves in hand. I tugged his hat snug over his ears, his nose already pink from the cold. My own coat was frayed at the seams, but it would have to do. There were so many things we needed, and a new coat barely made the list.
“Ready?” I asked, forcing cheer into my voice.
He nodded, eyes sparkling. “Ready!”
As we crunched down the snow-covered path, I glanced back at our small rental house.
In daylight, it looked… almost charming. The white siding was worn and chipped in places, front steps slightly uneven, and the faded green shutters clung stubbornly to their hinges. A narrow porch wrapped halfway around, dusted in snow and edged with a rusty railing. An old rocking chair sat abandoned in the corner, its wooden slats warped from years of weather. Fresh snow weighed down the roof, icicles dangling from the eaves like jagged glass teeth.
It looked quaint. Peaceful, even. But peace didn’t come easy anymore.
My eyes swept the street. A flicker of movement in the house next door made my shoulders tense before I realized it was just the curtain twitching. The neighbouring house sat barely ten feet away, its light-blue siding faded and cold. A black car was parked in the driveway, windshield dusted with snow.
No one appeared. No doors opened. Still, a small spike of adrenaline pulsed under my skin. Every sound–a branch shifting under snow, a distant dog bark–made my pulse jump.
I forced a slow breath. No one knew we were here. No one had followed us.
Still, I glanced over my shoulder once more before taking Connor’s hand.
The town was quiet as we made our way toward the main road–so different from the city we’d left behind. Chimneys puffed soft trails of smoke into the pale sky, carrying the faint scent of wood burning.
When we reached the main road, I slowed, taking it in. The town had a charm that felt both timeless and lived-in, the kind of place generations might grow up and grow old in. Buildings were a mix of weathered brick and brightly painted wood. Hand-painted and carved signs hung above the doors, each one worn but full of character.
