The house had never been this silent.
Elara Dane stood in the doorway of her bedroom, fingers curled against the frame, staring at the bed she and Daniel had shared for twelve years. The pillow still had the faintest indentation from where he used to sleep—though logically, she knew it should've flattened out by now. Memory could be cruel like that: it played tricks, filling in the gaps with ghosts.
Her parents had begged her to stay with them after the funeral, but Elara refused. She couldn't explain it, not without sounding unhinged. She needed to be in this house. She needed the stillness, the ache, the proof that she had once been someone's forever.
She slipped inside the room and sat on the edge of the bed. The springs dipped under her weight, a reminder of nights Daniel would roll toward her, mumbling sleep-heavy affection. She folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes. For a moment she let herself picture him as he'd been: warm, alive, teasing her about how her hair was "a force of nature" each morning.
Then the moment passed, as it always did, leaving behind the hollow echo of reality.
When the doorbell rang, she flinched so hard she nearly slipped off the bed.
It took her several breaths to stand. Several more to make her feet obey. When she reached the living room, sunlight streamed through the open curtains she didn't remember opening. The doorbell rang again.
She opened it to find Callum Rowan standing on the porch with a container of soup in one hand and a hesitant expression on his face.
Callum had always been the quiet one of the two brothers Daniel had mentored since they were kids. Broader now, older now, his shoulders seemed too heavy for someone only thirty. He'd flown in from Portland three days before the funeral and hadn't left town since.
"Elara," he said softly, as if her name was something delicate.
She felt her throat tighten. "You don't have to keep bringing food."
"I know." He lifted the container a little. "But I wanted to."
His voice was steadier than hers could ever hope to be right now. She stepped aside, not trusting her voice to say more. Callum entered, closing the door gently behind him.
The house seemed smaller with him in it. Or maybe she was just hyperaware of how different the air felt—less lonely, less suffocating.
"I can put this in the fridge," he offered.
"That's fine." Her voice cracked, betraying her.
Callum paused, studying her with that unreadable intensity he'd always had. "Have you eaten today?"
"I'm… I'm not sure," she admitted.
He nodded, as if he expected that answer. "I'll heat some up."
Elara tried to protest, but the words tangled in her chest. So she sat on the couch, folded her legs beneath her, and watched him move around her kitchen like he still remembered where everything was. Daniel had taught both brothers to cook in that very kitchen. The memory made her eyes burn.
Callum returned with a steaming bowl and placed it on the coffee table. "Eat what you can."
She forced several spoonfuls down out of politeness, though the warmth of the soup helped more than she would admit. When she looked up, Callum was still watching her—too gently, too quietly. There was something in his eyes, something like concern wrapped around something deeper.
It made her uncomfortable. Not because it was unwelcome, but because she didn't know how to carry the weight of being seen right now.
"I'm okay," she lied.
He didn't call her on it, but he didn't believe her either.
Before she could decide what to say next, another knock sounded—louder, less patient.
Callum sighed under his breath. "That'll be Jace."
Sure enough, Jace Rowan, Callum's younger brother, strode in the moment she opened the door. Taller than Callum by an inch but leaner, with a spark in his eyes that persisted even through grief, Jace wrapped her in a hug before she could react.
"Elara," he murmured against her hair. "You look exhausted."
She stiffened, not because she didn't appreciate the warmth but because it had been so long since anyone touched her without hesitation. She didn't know what to do with her hands, so she awkwardly rested them against his sides until he pulled back.
"You didn't answer your phone," he added, stepping inside.
"I wasn't up for talking," she said, closing the door behind him.
Jace's eyes softened. "We worry about you. That's allowed."
It shouldn't have mattered so much, but hearing someone say they worried made her blinking become too rapid, too strained.
He glanced at his brother. "Did you feed her?"
"Trying to," Callum replied.
Jace flopped onto the armchair as if he'd lived there all his life. "Good. She needs more than coffee and grief to survive."
Elara almost smiled despite herself.
Almost.
The brothers settled into the house easily, naturally, as if grief had carved out a place for them here. They talked about errands they'd run that morning, a few memorial details they were still sorting out, and a neighbor who'd dropped off a casserole too heavy with pepper.
She listened, not because she had anything to contribute, but because their presence filled a void she didn't realize was swallowing her.
After a lull in conversation, Jace leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"We're not letting you do this alone."
The simple declaration hit her harder than she expected. "You don't have to stay in town for me."
Jace scoffed. "We came because we loved him. We're staying because we care about you."
Callum nodded, steady and sure. "This house shouldn't feel empty."
Elara swallowed, trying not to crumble under the weight of their sincerity.
She had always known the Rowan brothers cared for her—in the way younger men looked up to someone who had been part of their lives since adolescence. But today, something felt different. There was a quiet undercurrent beneath their attention. A subtle shift she couldn't name yet but could feel in her skin.
When Jace's hand brushed her arm as he reached for the remote, she felt it too sharply.
When Callum held her gaze a second too long, her breath thinned.
Was it the grief?
The loneliness?
The way they looked at her, not with pity but with something warmer?
She didn't know.
She wasn't ready to know.
The three of them stayed in the living room as the light shifted from afternoon gold to evening blue. The brothers cleaned the kitchen without asking. They made sure she drank water. They lingered like anchors, grounding her each time her thoughts drifted somewhere dark.
When they finally left, promising to return the next day, Elara stood at the door long after their footsteps faded.
The house was quiet again.
But not the same kind of quiet.
Something new had filled the cracks.
Something warm.
Something dangerous.
Something she wasn't ready to name.
She closed the door slowly, her fingers trembling—not from grief alone, but from the realization that in the middle of her heartbreak, she had felt something she thought had died with Daniel.
She had felt alive.