Chapter Eight | A Warmth You Don’t Question

The first frost came quietly.

No fanfare, no grand warning.
Just the soft hush of breath against windowpanes, and the crunch of grass underfoot that let her know something had changed overnight.

She pulled her heaviest cardigan from the peg by the door. The one that always smelled faintly of cedar and clove. She lit the stove and filled the kettle, not because she needed tea, but because the sound made the house feel more alive.

The air outside was cold enough to turn her cheeks pink on the walk to town, but not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind her she had skin, and a heart, and both were still doing their jobs.

At the bakery, Rowan was there—early, as usual.
He looked up from a small spiral notebook as she walked in and smiled like he’d been waiting, but hadn’t minded.

“You’re late,” he said softly.

“I’m never late,” she replied, settling into the chair across from him.
“You’re just always early.”

He didn’t argue. Just reached into a brown paper bag and pulled out a scone. Pumpkin, she guessed, judging by the spice in the air.

“I got two,” he said, sliding one across to her. “Figured you might want one.”

There were no expectations in the gesture. No layered meaning.
Just a scone. Just a quiet kindness.
But it landed somewhere deep in her, like warmth in cold bones.

They didn’t talk much that morning.
She wrote a little. He read something he didn’t share.
And in between, they let silence have its say.

When it was time to leave, they walked together. Not because it was planned, but because their feet just… fell into the same rhythm.

As they reached the cottage path, Rowan paused.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, eyes fixed on the trees overhead.
“You and I… we’re not trying, are we?”

She blinked. “Trying what?”

He looked down at her, something steady in his gaze.

“To be anything. To impress. To pretend. We’re just… being.”

She felt it then. The familiar instinct to run.
To retreat into solitude, where everything was quieter, safer.
But this—this didn’t feel like danger.

It felt like that first sip of tea on a cold morning.
Like finding a note you forgot you wrote to yourself in better handwriting than you remember.
It felt like being seen, and not having to shrink.

“I like not trying,” she said.

He nodded. And smiled. Not with his mouth, but with something more honest.

Before he turned to leave, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object wrapped in a napkin. When she opened it later, inside was a tiny carved wooden fox.

No note. No explanation.

Just a warmth she didn’t question.