Falling Forward ✔

Chapter Twenty-Seven - Reece

I'm the first one up come Christmas morning, having been shocked awake when I'd tumbled over the edge of the twin bed, hitting the floor with a muffled thud. Bas hadn't woken, simply shifted onto his side and made some smartass comment in a drowsy slur.

So, because I was suddenly wide awake, I unpacked the Christmas gifts from my bag. One for Bas and one for all of the Killfeathers; because I couldn't not get my gracious hosts something.

Padding softly through the silent house, I'd placed the presents under the tree and taken to the kitchen with the intent to make coffee.

I'm fumbling through the cupboards for a while when Claude enters. "Morning."

I nearly jump through the ceiling, emitting a mouse-like squeak and whirling around to face the newcomer.

Claude gives an apologetic smile. "I'm usually the first one up, you beat me to the punch." She says and places an empty water glass by the sink. She's wearing a gray t-shirt, sweatpants, fuzzy slippers, and a plush shawl around her shoulders. The simple colors draw out the lavender tones in her hair.

I lean back into the counter, heartbeat returning to a normal. "Bastien pushed me off the bed. I'm not usually a morning person." I respond and absent-mindedly rub my elbow, which had hit the floor first and taken the brunt of my tumble.

Claude giggles, reaching past me and setting a metal tin on the counter. "I imagine you were looking for this."

I pop the lid on the tin, expelling a low moan as the intoxicating aroma of coffee floats up. "Thank you."

She starts pulling down mugs. "We have a Keurig with reusable K-cups or," she gestures at a huge box of a machine, "that thing." Claude's face scrunches up as she stares at it. "But I can't work it so if you want to use it, you're on your own."

I eye it dubiously. It looks like a relic from World War II. "Yeah, I'll pass."

"Solid choice." She starts to set up the Keurig. "There's cocoa cups in that drawer, could you grab some?" She asks me while gesturing, I nod and follow her instructions.

"So," Claude begins after a few minutes of companionable silence. I look up from my hands, clasping them before me so as not to keep obsessing over the cracked, dry skin that the cold air inflicts. She presses a button on the machine and closes the lid with a pod inside, the Keurig whirs, and Claude leans her back into the counter, facing me.

"So." I answer.

Claude folds her arms over her chest. "I just wanted to say that I never meant to unsettle you yesterday." She begins, eyes gentle on my face. I sit up a little straighter, suddenly unsure how to react. "Doing what I do, I've learned to recognize things, signs, I mean. I don't mean to pry. That's not my intent."

I shift, draw my sweater closer around my body, wishing suddenly that I knew a way to escape without being obvious. "I don't want—"

"Let me finish." Claude implores. "I'm not asking you to talk about it. I'm just saying," she slides a piping hot mug in my direction. "I'm a good listener, and a self-proclaimed expert on everything Bastien," she winks. "So, if you do want to talk, about my brother, you, or anything, I'm here." She smiles and pops another pod in the machine.

Gingerly, I reach toward the mug and curl my hands around the warm ceramic. Claude doesn't say anything more, just busies herself with mundane tasks while I ruminate over her words.

Not long ago, any mention of Asher—direct or indirect—would've sent me into survival mode. My skin would itch, and I'd ache to release that energy with the edge of a blade. My stomach would roil, anxious and angry.