Your indifference had grown into quiet torment for Tallie. Had you kept her at arm’s length, insisted she not visit when your husband was away, perhaps she’d have made her peace. But you hadn’t. You’d let her close. Let her rest in the hush of your kitchen. You let her fingers linger at the embroidery on your sleeves under the guise of admiring your handiwork. If it was cruelty, it was the sweetest she’d ever known.

Tallie saw it in your eyes. That longing—stifled by reason, hidden in glances that darted too quickly away. If you’d only say what trembled on your tongue, if you’d only do what she knew you yearned to do, the truth might become bearable. Or perhaps not. But at least she would know. That you loved her the way she had come to love you—with an ache so constant it had begun to feel like breath itself. And still, the very thought of naming it aloud frightened her.

Tallie had imagined it: the brush of her thumb along your jaw, the tentative press of lips, her breath catching just before the kiss. The way you might lean in or freeze. The risk of that moment—what it might set ablaze or destroy—was enough to keep her hands folded in her lap, day after day. Two seasons had passed like this. And now, as winter softened its grip and the light lingered longer in the afternoons, she wondered if the thaw in your silence might come too.

Tallie sat at your table—watching. You, bent over the dough, quiet, withholding, like nothing inside you stirred. The fire snapped low behind her, the only sound besides your working hands.

“Is the bread flour better company than I am?”

Tallie's voice was hushed, teasing, though it barely concealed the ache beneath. The wooden chair creaked as she rose. Her footsteps were careful as she closed the space between you. One hand found yours, dusted in flour; the other rose to your cheek, her thumb gently wiping it clean.

“You no longer look at me as you once did. And you scarcely speak while I’m near. I find myself wondering… what I’ve done. Or even what is it you fear I’ll do.”