The warmth before the cold
It was late, the kind of late that made everything seem unnatural. Dark wind blowing, the type that makes everything seem more gloomy than it is. The rain — well, that doesn’t help either.
As I walk up to the old manor I’ve called my home for the last 10 years, I open the big old gate, latching it shut behind me. A warmth filled me as I made my way down the long driveway, the wind blowing through my shoulder‑length brown hair.
My green‑grey eye lands on the manor — this old, beautiful white‑stoned manor with the big, huge windows I’ve spent more than enough time reading in.
I dig through my bag looking for my keys, which of course I can’t find. With a sigh, I lean down, picking up this weird statue that’s been on the porch for as long as I can remember. A small stone statue with a pointed hat and a lantern that always glows. With all the years it’s been at the manor, I never knew how to turn it off, and it always glows brighter around certain people. It’s weird.
As I pick it up, the lantern glows brighter, but under the foot of the gnome statue sits the extra key.
As I open the door, the scent of cherries and vanilla floods my senses. A sudden “Hey, Elle, how was work?” makes me turn around, seeing my fiancé standing there — taller than I am, about 5′11”, with dirty blond hair, and bright blue eyes with darker blue swirling within — the eyes of the one person who always makes me feel safe.
His gravelly voice, the one that always softens when he talks to me, says, “I made dinner,” and that makes me pause.
“You can’t cook, Conner.”
“I can cook.”
I give him my famous you sure about that look as I wrap my arms around his neck, standing at 5′5 compared to his 5′11, and he sighs. “I bought takeout.”
Relief floods me, causing him to laugh — that laugh that makes me melt inside. And it only gets better when he says, “I got Chinese.”
I can’t help but say, “I love Chinese,” and he looks fond. “I know.” As he leans down and kisses her, she melts right into him, their soft lips touching, and for one simple moment, it’s calm — just them. When he pulls away, my eyes flicker up to his, and the question slips out before I can stop it.
“Do you have the night shift at the station again?”
He sighs, looking away from me and out the big picture window.
“Yeah, I do. But I have enough time for dinner with you. Maybe a shower too.”
A laugh breaks out of me — that sound he loves, the sound I hate.
“If you’re lucky. Come on, let’s go eat dinner.”
And he teases, “I got the good Chinese. That should at least make me a little lucky.”
A smile stretches across my pale, slightly tan face — the kind of smile that lights up the eyes with that twinkle.
“Maybe a little lucky,” I say, “but I’m not promising.” As I make my way into the kitchen, Conner hesitates beside me, looking out the window once more, and I can’t help the feeling that I’m missing something as I look at him.
“You ok, hun? If you need to get down to the station, it’s ok.”
He looks at me, confused for a second.
“Yes… the station.”
The confusion — well, it fills me with my own. I look at him.
“You feeling ok, Conner?” I tilt my head. “Is there something I need to know?”
He moves toward me, fast‑paced, settling his hands on my hourglass form, pure love mixed with a slight fear as he says, “There’s nothing you need to worry about, ok? I’m yours. Always will be. Come on, Eleanor, let’s go eat, ok?”
