Chapter Twenty?Seven — The Weight of Tenderness

  Night fell heavy over the burned way?station. The wind carried the faint smell of ashes and old fear. The wagon company moved slowly, speaking in murmurs, as if raising their voices might draw the riders out of the dark.

  Finch set a double watch. Families huddled close. No one slept deeply.

  Miles least of all.

  His ribs ached from running, panic, and the torn binding beneath his shirt. Every breath tugged painfully. Every twist of his body sent sharp jolts through his chest.

  He thought he hid it well.

  He was wrong.

  Jonah found him near the back of the wagon circle, sitting in the shadow of a broken trunk with his knees drawn up, trying to breathe slow and quiet.

  Jonah crouched in front of him, lantern in hand.

  “There you are,” he said softly. “Been looking.”

  Miles blinked. “Why?”

  Jonah gave a half?smile, though worry glinted in his eyes. “Because you vanished the moment we stopped. Which is usually a sign you’re hiding something.”

  Miles forced a shrug — and winced.

  Jonah’s expression changed instantly. “You’re hurt.”

  Miles bit the inside of his cheek. “It’s nothing. Just… sore.”

  “Sore?” Jonah repeated, voice low, skeptical. “Miles, last time you said that you were nearly crushed under a wagon.”

  Miles looked away.

  Jonah set the lantern down, reached forward, and placed two gentle fingers just above Miles’s ribs. “Here?”

  Miles sucked in a breath — involuntary, sharp.

  Jonah withdrew his hand immediately, eyes widening with alarm. “That’s not nothing.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Miles whispered. “I just need to rest.”

  Jonah shook his head firmly. “You need help.”

  Miles froze when Jonah reached for the buttons of his overshirt.

  “Wait—” Miles grabbed his wrist, panic flaring like lightning. “Jonah, wait—”

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  Jonah stilled completely.

  His voice dropped to a soft, steady murmur. Gentle. Grounding.

  “Hey,” he said. “I’m not trying to hurt you. Or… or see anything you don’t want me to.”

  Miles’s grip loosened.

  “I just want to help you breathe easier,” Jonah continued. “That’s all.”

  Miles trembled.

  He wasn’t afraid of Jonah. He was afraid of the truth slipping between them like a fragile thread snapping.

  Slowly, Miles nodded.

  Jonah exhaled, relief softening his features. “Alright. Just lift your shirt enough for me to see where you’re bruised.”

  Miles carefully pulled the shirt up — only to the ribs, keeping the binding and everything above it hidden in shadow.

  Even in low lantern?light, the bruises were deep — blue, green, angry marks blooming across Miles’s side.

  Jonah swore under his breath, almost too softly to hear.

  “Damn, Miles.” His eyes filled with something raw — worry, guilt, tenderness. “You’ve been hurting like this for days?”

  Miles didn’t trust his voice, so he nodded.

  Jonah pressed his lips together, breath shaking. “You should have told me.”

  “I didn’t want anyone to worry,” Miles whispered.

  “That’s not how worry works,” Jonah murmured, reaching into his bag and pulling out a small jar of salve from the last trading post they’d visited. “It doesn’t disappear just because you hide pain.”

  His hands were steady as he dipped two fingers into the salve. Steady… but gentle in a way that made Miles’s throat tighten.

  “This will be cold,” Jonah warned quietly. “Tell me if it hurts.”

  He touched Miles’s ribs.

  Miles inhaled sharply — not from pain this time, but from how careful Jonah was, how much tenderness lived in his fingertips.

  Jonah worked slowly, massaging the salve into bruised skin, eyes never leaving Miles’s face. “You’ve been pushing too hard. Saving everyone else. You forget you’re human, too.”

  Miles managed a small smile. “I can’t afford to.”

  Jonah shook his head, voice low. “You don’t have to act like you’re alone out here.”

  Miles swallowed. “I’m not alone.”

  Jonah looked up — and Miles felt the intensity of that gaze down to his bones.

  “No,” Jonah said softly. “You’re not.”

  His hand lingered a moment longer than it needed to. Warm. Solid. Fiercely protective.

  “Thank you,” Miles whispered.

  Jonah’s smile was tender in the lantern glow. “Always.”

  Miles lowered his shirt again, hands trembling slightly, but Jonah didn’t step away. He stayed close — close enough that Miles could feel his presence like a steady heartbeat beside him.

  “Miles…” Jonah began, voice hesitant, hopeful. “When you’re ready… I want to understand you. All of you. Whatever you tell me — or don’t tell me — won’t change how I feel.”

  Miles’s breath caught.

  Dangerous words. Beautiful words. Words he needed and feared in equal measure.

  “I know,” Miles whispered.

  Jonah reached for his hand, just briefly — a touch soft as a promise.

  “Rest,” he said. “I’ll keep watch.”

  Miles nodded, heart full and hurting and hopeful all at once.

  As Jonah settled beside him, rifle across his knees, Miles leaned back against the wagon wheel — ribs aching, soul trembling — and let himself believe, just for tonight, that someone cared enough to stay.