Page 43 of Widow’s Walk

“Yeah.” He crouched beside her. “You’re okay. You were sleepwalking toward the mansion.”

She blinked slowly, unfocused, as though she didn’t understand the words. Then, softly, “I heard him calling.”

A chill coiled through him. “What?”

But she was already sinking back into sleep. Her breathing evened out, mouth parted in quiet exhaustion.

He stayed longer than he meant to and watched until the tremors eased and the tension left her face. Ollie climbed up beside her, curled close, and sighed deeply.

Only then did Sully exhale as he rubbed at his eyes, thumb pressed into the bridge of his nose.

What was he supposed to do now? He couldn’t leave her alone—not if she was likely to wander again. The mansion was full of hazards, and the cliffs… he shuddered at the thought.

Waking Kelsey in the middle of the night to come stay would’ve been cruel—she had a family, a whole life to look after. And Sully was already here.

He considered his options. The couch? Maybe. But would he wake if Amy got up again?

The bed was warm, far more tempting, and completely inappropriate. Their relationship was already a tangle: from sparring over deadlines to uneasy allies, from that one reckless kiss to her hands on him only hours before.

Now he was imagining how it would feel to sink into that same bed, beside her.

He swore under his breath, irritated at himself and unsure how he’d gotten himself here. He pulled a quilt from the back of the antique rocking chair, one that looked too fragile to hold his weight, and settled on the floor, body angled across the doorway. She’d have to step on him to leave.

It would have to do for the night. In the morning, he’d figure out a more practical solution—an alarm, maybe—something to keep her safe.

Outside, the night drew tight around the cottage, quiet and heavy as the breath before a storm.

Amy woke to the pale blush of dawn creeping around the edges of the curtains. The light felt too bright, the air too still. Her body ached with a strange, hollow exhaustion that came after a dream-filled night.

For a while, she didn’t move. The heaviness of the blankets, the faint hum of the ocean beyond the walls, the warmth across her legs—it all felt normal enough.

Ollie, she thought. The extra weight was his small, solid reassurance, always curled near her feet.

The sound of snoring reached her, soft and vibrating—a steady, almost comic rumble. She smiled faintly against her pillow. Loud this morning, little man.

But as the fog of sleep lifted, she realized something was off. The rhythm was deeper, heavier… decidedly not Ollie’s.

She lifted her head, blinking blearily, and peered toward the foot of the bed. Ollie was there, all right—stretched out like a furry comma across the quilt. He blinked at her with unfocused, dogged disinterest. The snoring wasn’t coming from him at all.

Amy frowned and leaned over the far side of the bed.

Sully lay on the floor.

Wrapped in her spare quilt, with one arm flung over his head, sound asleep. His body was twisted at an absurd angle, the kind of position she could feel a chiropractor judging from afar. His jaw was rough with stubble, his hair mussed into awkward waves. Beneath the ridiculousness of it all, something inside her softened.

Oh God.

He let out another throaty snore, loud enough to startle Ollie into a side-eye of disdain.

Why is he here?

And then pieces tumbled back—blurred impressions and half-memories that didn’t quite line up.

The fog.The grass under her feet.

The crushing cold.

Strong arms lifting her, carrying her through the dark. The deep smell of sawdust.And a voice—low, steady, close to her ear—telling her she was safe.