The cottage smelled like rosemary and old books.
Cole moved quietly through the small kitchen, his fingers brushing the rim of a chipped mug as he poured two coffees. He remembered this place—its warmth, its quiet stubbornness, much like Arden herself. Only now it felt more fragile. Like one wrong word might collapse the walls.
Arden sat curled on the armchair, wrapped in a blanket she'd pulled from the cedar chest. Her hair was a little damp from the mist, her eyes distant, like they were still walking the path back from the bridge.
"Cream?" Cole asked.
"No. Just bitter," she said with a crooked smile. "Like me."
He didn't laugh. But the corner of his mouth twitched. "You weren't always."
"I am now."
He handed her the cup. Their fingers brushed again, and she didn't flinch this time.
They sipped in silence, the weight of morning pressing gently on their shoulders. Outside, the hills stirred with sunlight, but inside, they were still wrapped in yesterday's ghosts.
"I meant to write you," Cole said finally.
Arden blinked. "After the trial?"
"Yeah. But everything I wrote sounded... selfish. I kept trying to explain instead of apologize. And I knew you didn't need more explanations."
She looked into her cup. "I didn't want letters. I wanted to hate you cleanly."
His eyes searched her face. "Did it work?"
"No," she whispered. "Not even close."
Cole nodded, almost to himself. "I didn't testify because I wanted him punished. I testified because I was scared of what you'd become if you kept protecting someone who wasn't innocent."
Her jaw clenched. "Jamie wasn't a monster."
"No," he said. "But he wasn't a hero either."
Arden stood abruptly, pacing. "He was a kid. A scared, angry kid who made one mistake."
"A mistake that cost someone their life."
"I know that!" she shouted, the mug trembling in her hands. "You think I don't live with that every single day? That I don't hear her mother's scream in my sleep?"
The room fell silent.
She stood there, shaking, and Cole didn't move. He let the moment burn out.
Then, softly: "Then why do we keep pretending it's only our grief that matters?"
Arden sank to the floor, blanket sliding off her shoulders. "Because if we stop pretending, then we're just people who let it happen. People who didn't stop him."
Cole knelt beside her. "We were kids too."
"Kids with choices."
He reached out, gently pushing her hair behind her ear. "So let's choose now. Not what happened then. But what we do with what's left."
Arden looked at him. Her eyes were rimmed red, but clear. "And what's left?"
Cole gave a small, broken smile. "Us, maybe. If we want it."
She didn't answer.
But she didn't look away.
And in that quiet, with only the morning light and the coffee growing cold between them, a history built on smoke began to shift—slowly, uncertainly—toward something solid.
Something real.
Arden sat on the floor long after the silence returned. The coffee had cooled in her hands, and Cole hadn't moved. He sat cross-legged, not touching her, but close—close enough that she could feel his presence in the air like heat.
She broke the silence first. "After Jamie died, people stopped looking me in the eye.'
"They didn't know what to say."
"They didn't try to say anything." Her voice was flat. "I'd go to the grocery store, and people would shift aisles. Teachers stopped calling on me in class. Even the neighbors stopped waving."
Cole nodded. "That's what grief does in a town like this. It doesn't make people kind. It makes them cowards."
"I felt like I was the echo of something awful," she whispered. "Like I was still carrying it around, and they could smell it."
"You weren't the echo, Arden. You were the one who stayed when everyone else ran."
She looked at him then. Really looked. And for the first time, she saw the strain around his eyes. The sleepless nights. The grief that he never had the space to share because she'd taken up all the grief-room between them.
"I never asked how you were," she said quietly.
Cole shook his head. "It wasn't your job."
"I made you the villain," she continued. "It was easier than admitting that maybe we all failed him."
"You needed someone to hate. And I was convenient."
"No," she said, rising slowly to her knees. "You were brave. You told the truth. And I hated you for it because I couldn't."
Cole reached out, resting a hand over hers. His skin was warm and dry, his grip steady. It wasn't romantic. Not yet. It was something simpler, deeper.
Safety.
She leaned into it—just barely—and felt his breath catch.
"I missed you," she said, eyes closing.
"I missed us," he replied, voice rough. "I missed what we were before everything burned."
She opened her eyes. "Do you think we can be anything again?"
"I don't know," he said honestly. "But I know I'd rather rebuild something broken with you than build something new with anyone else."
They stayed there, hand in hand, not kissing, not touching more—but held together by years of pain, and the soft possibility of what healing might feel like if they ever allowed themselves to want it.
And that night, when Arden finally fell asleep on the couch, head resting against his shoulder, Cole didn't move.
Not even when the fire in the hearth died out.
Not even when the room fell into shadows.
Because for the first time in five years, she had fallen asleep without flinching.
And for the first time in five years, he wasn't dreaming of endings.
Only of what might begin again.
The cottage creaked as the temperature dropped, the old wood shifting like bones remembering how to rest. Arden stirred slightly in her sleep, a sigh escaping her lips as her head leaned more firmly against Cole's shoulder.
He didn't dare move.
Instead, he let his gaze travel over the quiet room. The photos on the mantle—one of Arden as a girl, barefoot and grinning in summer light—had dust on the corners. A blanket draped on the back of the armchair was unraveling. There was a candle on the windowsill, melted all the way down to the wick.
Time hadn't stopped here. It had simply limped on.
Cole reached slowly with his free hand and pulled the blanket around her shoulders. She murmured something unintelligible, the shape of his name perhaps, or maybe Jamie's. He didn't ask. He didn't need to know.
He knew the weight of her grief by heart. He carried it too.
The night deepened, and so did the hush between them. Somewhere outside, an owl called once—low and mournful. Cole shifted slightly, trying to ease the ache building in his back, but didn't move away. He wouldn't. Not until morning. Not until she was ready.
The clock ticked on.
And somewhere between the silence and the shadows, he whispered, "I still remember the first time I saw you."
Arden stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, still heavy with sleep.
"You were wearing your brother's jacket," he said, smiling faintly. "Too big for you, and your hair was a mess. You were furious because someone had scraped your bike."
She blinked at him. "That was you."
"Guilty."
She huffed. "You lied and blamed it on Jamie."
"And you still forgave me. Eventually."
They shared a long look. The kind that spoke of shared summers and shattered winters.
Arden sat up, slowly, rubbing her eyes. "Do you ever think we were meant to meet at a different time?"
"Maybe," Cole said. "But we met then. When it hurt. When it mattered."
She studied him—really studied him. There was a scar along his left eyebrow she hadn't noticed before. A streak of silver in his hair she didn't remember.
"We've changed," she said.
"We had to," he replied. "But I still see you. Even in all that's changed."
Her breath hitched slightly.
Then, carefully, slowly—like two people not quite sure where the line was—she leaned forward and kissed him.
It wasn't fire.
It was embers.
Steady. Warm. Surprising.
When she pulled back, they didn't speak.
They just sat in the quiet, and let something new begin.