Page 88 of These Tears

And I wonder – is this what hell really looks like? This domesticated, contained madness that one pulls up a chair to at the end of the day and calls comfort?

Terrible things exist beyond the walls. There should be some semblance of safety indoors.

There isn’t.

Not with him inside.

‘Add two logs.’ His voice carries a timbre that feels as though it came straight out of the hearth. The steady tak-tak-tak of a blade on a chopping board punctuates his words. The smell of onions wafts from the kitchen.

Even after half an hour wrapped in blankets by the fire, my fingers still feel as if they’ve been flayed and held over a flame. But I shift anyway, dragging two pine logs closer. The bark scrapes against the hearthstone as I feed them to the fire’s open maw.

It snarls.

It swells.

Grateful. But more ferocious for it.

Grabbing the iron poker, I start teasing the embers, watching sparks jump like startled insects. The flames bend towards the new wood, devouring it with a hunger that feels all too familiar.

‘I’m going to get the hens and the cockerel tomorrow,’ Elias says quietly, warmth carrying through his voice that feels almost misplaced after everything that came before.

A series of plops sounds as he drops the chopped carrots and onions into the bubbling pot.

My fingers twitch beneath the blanket.

Tomorrow, as if he owns the day too.

‘Shovel the snow from the path so the door can open fully. Ice collects near the threshold. There’s an ice chopper beside the shovel against the back wall.’

A shaky, rhythmic sound spreads. I glance over my shoulder to see him salting whatever’s in the pot.

The jumper stretches across the breadth of his back as if it cannot contain the force beneath. The defined planes of his forearm flex beneath the fabric with each slow turn of his wrist.

My gaze slips lower despite myself, following the taper of his waist to the grey joggers stretched indecently over the full curve of his bottom.

Then his arm reaches for a kitchen towel, and – while he gathers it effortlessly into one fist – my fingers knot into the blanket’s edge at the pure strength that outlines the swell of muscle.

‘Burying a body beneath twelve feet of snow and frozen earth is a hassle.’

His words echo between my ears.

‘Use the other entrance to the shed. The one closer to the slope. That’s where the straw bales are.’ He pauses to stir. ‘Layer it thick across the floor. Keep it dry. It keeps the cold from creeping up through the floor and into the chickens’ feet.’

I stare at the black hair curling at his neck as he weaves survival into instruction. No requests or questions, just a list of things I will do if I want warmth, food, and peace.

Neither of us mentions what happened; what is going to happen. He keeps his attention on the pot. I keep mine on him.

Taking a deep breath, he hooks the kitchen towel into the waistband of his grey joggers as he reaches for another jar of spice.

‘The wooden crates need to be packed with straw too. That’s for nesting. Dark corners work best.’ His voice lowers slightly as he turns the lid over the pot. ‘They’ll want somewhere quiet to lay. Somewhere they won’t be watched. Boxes need checking twice a day while it’s cold. Eggs might crack.’

When he finally looks at me, his mouth parts as if more instructions have piled up, but he presses his lips together instead.

At this stage, though, I know better than to trust what I want to see on Elias Crane.

He breaks eye contact first, dark lashes falling over marble cheeks.

‘The crates should go to the left of the heater. Turn it on first thing in the morning.’ His hand taps absently against the range handle. ‘Check the solar battery while you’re at it. We’d want to know how much power it’s feeding the shed before the generator takes over.’