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"Yeah, just..." I shake my head, pushing away the memory. "Sure, I can go to the store."

"I'll come with you," Regnor says immediately.

"You don't have to?—"

"Yeah, I do." His tone means he doesn't want any argument from me. "Not letting you go anywhere alone. Not with everything that's going on."

Fern looks between us, and I see the moment she puts pieces together.

The protective stance, the way I'm letting him take charge.

Her eyes drop to my stomach for just a second before snapping back up.

"Take my car," she offers, handing over her keys. "It's already warm."

The drive to the store is quiet.

Regnor's hand rests on my thigh, thumb tracing absent patterns through the fabric of my dress.

"You sure you're okay?" he asks as we pull into the parking lot. "You went white back there."

"Just remembered something," I admit. "Last time Fern sent me to the store, I was with Dylan. Thanksgiving. It was... not good."

His hand tightens. "That's not happening again."

"I know."

And I do know.

Because Regnor's here now, solid and protective in a way Dylan never was.

The store is busy with holiday shoppers.

We weave through the crowds, Regnor's hand on my lower back, guiding and grounding.

"Whipped cream's in dairy," I say, leading us that way.

"We should get some ginger ale too," he suggests. "For your stomach."

The casual care makes my throat tight.

Even playing a role, he's more considerate than Dylan ever was.

We're passing the cereal aisle when I see him.

Dylan.

Standing there like a ghost made flesh, studying boxes of granola like he has any intention of buying healthy food.

I freeze.

Every muscle locking up, fight or flight warring in my system.

"Well, well." He turns, and there's something different about his eyes. Something darker. Meaner. "Everly. Imagine running into you here."

"Dylan." My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

He moves closer, and I instinctively step back.