The next morning, the answer was written in work. Jonah was already outside, splitting wood with swings so clean each log cracked in a single blow. His shirt clung to his shoulders with sweat despite the chill.
Abby stepped into the doorway, rubbed sleep from her eyes, and called, “If you plan to work me to death, you’d better let me eat first.” Jonah paused, axe buried in a stump. Slowly, one corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile but close enough to count as a crack in stone. “Breakfast,” he said. One word, and it landed in Abby’s chest like a strange gift: an acknowledgment.
The first week didn’t test muscle so much as it tested pride. The work was endless, but Abby didn’t mind labor. She’d spent her life earning her place by being useful, because nobody had ever offered her a place just because she existed.
What grated was Jonah’s constant criticism, the way his silence wasn’t peaceful but crowded with judgment. “Fire’s too low.” “Logs are cut too short.” “Stew’s on too early.” He didn’t shout. He didn’t curse. He just delivered each complaint like a hammer tap, steady enough to build a wall between them.
On the fourth evening, Abby finally set the spoon down hard enough to make the table jump. “You know,” she said, planting her hands on her hips, “for a man who lives alone, you sure do complain like you’ve got an audience.” Jonah didn’t lift his head from the knife he was sharpening. “If I wanted it wrong,” he replied, “I’d cook it myself.”
Abby’s cheeks flushed hot. “Then do it,” she shot back. “Go on. Cook it. Sharpen your knife, cook your stew, and keep your precious silence. But don’t you sit there acting like you invited me here to be your punching bag for every unhappy thought you’ve ever had.”
For a long moment, Jonah went still. The cabin’s fire popped and cracked, a small, defiant sound. When Jonah finally looked up, his eyes were sharp, but there was something else under the edge, something almost startled. “You’re the first one to raise your voice at me,” he said, not as a threat, but as if he couldn’t quite believe it was allowed.
Abby didn’t blink. “Then maybe you needed someone who wasn’t afraid of you,” she said. Her voice softened just a notch, because anger, she’d learned, was often grief wearing boots. “Or maybe you needed someone who’d stop letting you hide behind grunts.”
Jonah’s jaw worked as if he were chewing on words he didn’t like the taste of. Then, slow as snow sliding off a roof, his shoulders eased a fraction. He pushed the bowl back toward her. “It’s… fine,” he muttered. “I’ll eat it.”
Abby’s mouth tugged into a smirk, though her eyes stayed serious. “That’s right you will,” she said, and the air shifted, not into comfort yet, but into something less lonely than before.
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