Page 53 of Held-

I could tell her the truth—that I don’t know. That people in my world don’t get to hold on to good things. That morning light has a way of burning down anything that feels right once the dark is gone.

But I can’t make myself say any of it.

Instead, I catch her hand and press a kiss to her knuckles. “Now, you sleep. Let the world wait for once.”

She studies me for another heartbeat, then nods, her lashes lowering as she settles back against me. Within moments, her breathing evens out, her body softening into mine.

I stay awake, staring at the cracked ceiling, her scent still lingering on my skin. The sun creeps through the blinds, painting stripes across the tangled sheets, across her shoulder, across me.

And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I don’t feel the urge to run.

CECE

The whole rideto my dad's house, I'm rehearsing what I'll say, but all the words evaporate the moment Brayden pulls up to the curb. Dad's probably watching from behind the curtains, counting my sins each second I spend pressed against Brayden's back.

“You sure you don't want me to come in?” Brayden asks as I swing my leg off his bike. “I don't mind facing the firing squad.”

I hand him back his helmet, fighting the urge to run my fingers through my tangled hair. “And give my father an actualtarget? No thanks.” I try for a smile, but it feels wobbly. “Let me handle him first. No sense in both of us getting crucified.”

Brayden gives the house a once-over, his jaw tightening with a verdict he doesn’t voice.

“If you need an escape, call,” he murmurs. “I’ll be here in five.”

“I’ll be fine.” I rise on my toes to kiss him, quick but certain. “Can I come by tonight? I’ll drive myself so you don’t have to keep playing chauffeur.”

He catches my hand before I can step away, his thumb tracing slow circles over my pulse. “And miss the excuse to keep you close?” A teasing curve lifts the corner of his mouth. “Not a chance.”

The warmth of his gaze makes my knees weak, but I force myself to step back. “I'll text you when I'm free.”

“I'll be waiting,” he promises, revving his engine.

I stand on the sidewalk watching until his bike disappears around the corner. Only then do I turn to face my childhood home, squaring my shoulders like I'm walking into battle. Which, knowing my father, I am.

The front door feels heavier than it should as I push it open. The house smells the same as always—lemon polish and old books, with the faint undertone of coffee. Dad's Sunday sermons are spread across the dining table, pages of notes and highlighted Bible verses in his familiar scrawl.

“Dad?” I call out, hanging my purse on the hook by the door.

The silence stretches for a moment before I hear movement from his study. When he appears in the hallway, the disappointment on his face is exactly what I expected.

“Cecelia.” Not Cece. Never Cece when he's upset. “I see you've decided to come home after all.”

I resist the urge to fidget the way I used to when I came home past curfew. “I told you I would.”

He studies my appearance—rumpled clothes, messy hair, the faint mark on my neck left by Brayden’s mouth—as though he’s cataloging every supposed wrongdoing etched on my skin. I’ve stood under this same scrutiny a hundred times before: after school dances, after my first date with Ethan, after news of my divorce spread through the congregation.

But this time, something in me refuses to fold under it.

“I was with Brayden, exactly as I said. And I’m not apologizing.”

Dad's lips press into a thin line. “That man is dangerous, Cecelia. The people he associates with?—”

“Are none of our business,” I interrupt. The words feel foreign in my mouth. I've never cut him off before. “I'm a grown woman, Dad. I make my own choices.”

“Choices have consequences.” He gestures toward the living room. “We should sit.”

I follow him, noticing how the house feels smaller now, as though I’ve outgrown the space without realizing it. The floral couch—home to countless lectures over the years—greets me with an unsettling familiarity. Dad takes his usual armchair, the one that always positions him as though he’s presiding over court rather than having a conversation.

“Your mother would be heartbroken to see you this way.”