The women would know it, too, and he wondered if they would choose to leave when the passes opened again. The question weighed on him even as he swung the axe back down into the log, the sound ringing through the still air. Inside, the sisters had found their places more firmly. The youngest no longer clung to her elders as tightly. She carried wood and water without being asked, humming while she worked, her bare feet now covered by the boots Rowan had given her.
The middle sister had turned his small stores of flour and cornmeal into meals that stretched far beyond what Rowan thought possible. He had caught himself eating better now than he had in years of living alone. The eldest moved between them all, watching, guiding, and more often than not standing near Rowan. Her presence felt even when she didn't speak. That night, after supper, Rowan sat at the table carding again.
The eldest lingered beside him, shoulders brushing his. Her hand occasionally resting on the table, so near his own that he could feel the warmth from her skin. The middle sister stitched quietly by the fire, the youngest already asleep with her head on a folded blanket. The lamp burned low, shadows long against the walls. Rowan finished the piece of wood in his hands and set it down.
The eldest reached for it, turning it over carefully, her fingers brushing his once more. She looked up, her eyes steady, and Rowan felt the air shift. She rose, silent, and moved toward his bed instead of the hearth. For a moment she stood there, waiting, her hand brushing the edge of the quilt. She wasn't demanding, but she wasn't uncertain either.
She had made her choice. Rowan stood slowly, his chest tightening. He glanced at the middle sister. She looked back at him, her expression guarded, but she gave no protest. Her eyes dropped back to her stitching, though her hands no longer moved.
Rowan understood. This was between him and the eldest now. He crossed the room, each step deliberate. The eldest met him with her chin lifted, her hair falling loose, her figure outlined in the lamplight. Rowan stopped close, his hand rising to touch her arm, then her face.
She leaned into it, closing her eyes briefly before looking at him again. When their lips met, it was different than before, less hesitant, more certain. Her hand gripped the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. His arm circled her waist, feeling the curve of her body through the thin fabric. The kiss deepened, carrying with it the silence of all the nights they had waited.
When they parted, she rested her forehead against his chest. He held her there for a long moment before guiding her down onto the bed. The fire crackled softly, the lamp burning low, the middle sister's eyes still flickering in the shadows, but her silence firm. Rowan and the eldest lay together, not hurried, not rough. Every touch was deliberate, measured, earned by weeks of restraint.