Page 45 of From the Wreckage

Brielle

My legs feel like they don’t belong to me. I’m trembling so hard I’m not sure how I’m standing at all. If Everett weren’t here—solid, immovable, blocking the memory of Joey’s grip with the reality of his warmth—I think I’d shatter.

He eases back just enough to catch my eyes, and then he does something that almost undoes me completely. He takes my hand. His grip is gentle but firm, guiding me toward the coffee counter like he’s steering me back into myself.

“Iced pumpkin spice latte,” he says to the barista without even looking at me, like he knows what I need before I can speak. Then he orders an iced coffee for himself.

When the drinks come, he sets mine in front of me, sliding into the chair across from me. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t fill the silence. He just sits there, watching me with those warm brown eyes, steady as a lighthouse while my storm rages.

I take a shaky sip, the sweet and familiar flavor coating my tongue. After a few moments, the tremors start to ease. My breath evens out. My heart stops galloping.

Minutes pass like that, the hum of the café filling the space between us. And when I finally find my voice, it comes out small, but sure. “I have Dad’s truck.”

His jaw tightens, like he already knows what I’m going to say next.

“Will you…” I swallow hard, gripping the cup tighter. “Will you follow me home?”

His disappointment is instant, a flicker in his eyes, and the barest droop of his shoulders. He swallows hard, looking lost. It nearly breaks me.

Leaning forward, my voice is a conspiratorial whisper meant only for him. “Then take me back to your cabin?”

He exhales so visibly, so heavily, it’s like I’ve just given him back the air he lost.

And God, the way that makes me smile.