The cottage door creaked, a dry, protesting sound in the stillness of the afternoon. Grayson didn't let her go. If anything, his grip tightened, his fingers digging slightly into the fabric of her shirt, anchoring himself to the only reality that made sense anymore. He didn't trust the silence because, in his experience, silence was merely the precursor to an explosion. But as Mailah leaned into him, her warmth seeping through the layers of his clothing, the static in his brain—the constant, frantic scanning of threats—began to quiet.
"The laundry," he murmured, his voice still vibrating against her skin. "It is sitting in the basket. It is... unfinished."
Mailah let out a short, incredulous laugh. She didn't pull away; she stayed wrapped in his arms, her head resting against his chest. "Let it wait, Grayson. The world isn't going to end because a pile of linens hasn't been folded."
