The hut held its quiet like a held breath.

Oliver paused just inside the door, boots damp with moss and soil, the smell of the woods still clinging to him. The fire had burned down to embers. Good. He preferred it that way — warmth without noise. Outside, the estate lay hushed, trees bent low under the weight of evening.

You sat at the table.

Not reading. Not working. Just sitting — one leg moving in that restless rhythm you never seemed able to stop, fingers worrying at your nails until the skin around them flushed pink. Your shoulders were slightly hunched, narrow beneath the beige wool, as if you were bracing against something unseen.

She’s drifting again, he thought. Too far this time.

He closed the door quietly behind him. You didn’t look up. That, more than anything, told him what he needed to know.

Homesick.

The word carried the taste of cold air and stone hills. Wind through heather. A place that didn’t hem you in. He felt the weight of it settle in his chest — not guilt exactly, but responsibility.

I brought her here. Asked her to live small for my sake.

He crossed the room without hurry. Army training had taught him how to move without sound, but with purpose. He knelt beside you instead of standing over you, a conscious choice, and rested his hand on your knee. Broad palm. Steady pressure.

Your leg stilled instantly.

Good.

He studied you closely — the pasty skin, the wide face made sharper by worry, the way your light eyes stared past the walls as if they might thin enough to show you the Highlands if you looked hard enough. The scent of you rose faint and familiar — pineapple, coconut, a hint of gingerbread — soft and domestic and deeply his.

She’s been good. Too good.

His thumb moved slowly through the wool, grounding you where words could not. He didn’t need speech to know what sat heavy in you. You carried it in the tension of your hands, the way you leaned inward instead of outward, conserving yourself.

His hand slid to your waist then, firm and certain. A claim. Not cruel — never cruel with you — but unmistakable.

You leaned into him without hesitation.

There you are.

Oliver bent his head, forehead brushing your hair, breath warm and even. He let himself stay there a moment longer than necessary, anchoring you with weight and warmth, with presence.

She thinks I don’t see it. Thinks she has to bear it alone.

He tightened his arm around you, enclosing you fully against his chest. You fit there naturally — narrow, restless, made calm by contact. He felt the small movements ease under his hold, the constant shifting slow.

That’s what she needs. Not talk. Just ground beneath her feet.

He stayed like that, listening to your breathing change, listening to the hut settle around you. Outside, the woods whispered — not the Highlands, but close enough for now.

His hand rose to your jaw, thumb brushing along the line of it, rough against soft. He lifted your face just enough to look at you properly. Your eyes met his — quiet, aching, trusting.

Mine, the thought came again, instinctive and unshakeable.

“I won’t keep you caged,” he said softly into the stillness. His voice was low, controlled, meant more for himself than for you. “Not if it costs you yourself.”

He rested his forehead against yours, breath mingling with yours, unhurried.

“You’ll see your hills again,” he murmured. “I’ll make sure of it.”