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I have both socked feet propped up on the ugly orange ottoman as I stare at my cell phone, a cherry lollipop tucked in my cheek. The television flickers in the background, volume on low, featuring some trending Netflix movie that lost my interest five minutes in.

Outside, through half-cracked blinds, a car horn blares, and I bite down on the candy.

Mrrooww.

Mr. Binkers coils into a loose ball on my lap, his fur a soothing balm as I graze my fingers between his ears. November rain lashes against the windowpane, streaking down in relentless, slanting sheets. It’s the start of the rainy season in San Francisco.

Sighing, I peer down at my phone screen again, my eyes fixed on a single name.

Isaac added his number to my phone at the hotel two nights ago, urging me to call or text him if I ever felt unsafe. He didn’t say anything about texting him out of guilt, but the weight of my conscience grew too heavy, and I messaged him shortly after Jasper dropped me off at my apartment, telling him about the business dinner. He left me on Read.

Now his name shines back at me again, a temptation I can’t quite shake. He probably never considered I’d be staring at his name just because I’m tangled up in thoughts of him—brash, unpredictable, and still somehow the one who makes me feel safer than I’ve felt in ages.

I roll the lollipop to the other side of my mouth, my thumb hovering over his contact before pressing the phone to my chest, hoping to dull the ache that follows his name, even when I’m not looking. “What do you think, Mr. Binkers? Am I catching feelings?”

That’s an understatement.

I’ve been feeling something for him ever since he called me “Bee” and bared his soul through a wall of white, his voice breaking through my hollow chasm like a lifeline.

The cat mews contentedly on my lap, his soft fur warming my hand. I stifle a smile. “Yeah,” I murmur, brushing his ears. “This probably won’t end well.”

Leaning back, I open a new message and flick my thumbs over the keypad.

Me

Hey.

He reads it almost instantly. My pulse kicks up as I wait for a response.

Isaac

?

I frown.

Me

…I didn’t realize a hello needed more context?

A few seconds roll by as my molars clamp down around the candy.

Isaac

You okay?

Me

Yes.

Then I add:

Me

Thinking of you.

My heartbeats skitter with anticipation.

He’s not really a talker. Or a sharer. Or a texter, probably.

We’d never be the type to go on dinner dates or trade cheesy “good morning” messages. And yet, something about that feels…right. Like whatever we’d have would be raw and real, carved out of moments no one else could understand.

Perfectly imperfect.

His response comes through a minute later.

Isaac

Am I naked?

I pull the candy from my mouth with a popping sound and grin.

Me

You tell me.

Isaac

Easily doable.

I watch his bubbles dip and move, but I send a reply before his message comes through.

Me

Are you busy tonight? I want to cook you dinner.

The bubbles stall out, disappearing. Rainfall sluices against the building, loudening when a gust of wind blows through. I sink deeper into the couch, waiting for a reply, feeling more vulnerable than I thought I would. This could just be sex for him—a familiar body to warm his bed, built on a fragile connection and a complicated history—but something tells me it’s more.

It’s in the way he held me, how my cheek melted against his chest as I dozed in his arms, how he opened up and shared more with me than I ever could have imagined. It’s in his promise to protect me—to take our captor’s life with his own hands.

He swore he’d kill him… for me .

His bubbles dance to life again.

Ten seconds. Fifty seconds. Two minutes.

He must be penning a dissertation.

And then my phone pings.

Isaac

K

I blink at the screen.

According to every relationship article ever written, that’s the universal code for “he’s just not that into you.” But with Isaac, I have no idea. He could show up at my door in twenty minutes for dinner, materialize in my bedroom at two a.m. for a quickie, or never speak to me again.

Huffing out a breath, I toss the phone beside me as Mr. Binkers hops off my lap and scurries into the kitchen. Regardless of Isaac’s intentions, I’m hungry, and I’m cooking.

I think back to a long-ago conversation in our side-by-side rooms when he mentioned he missed how his sister used to make him chicken pot pie, claiming it was “the only kind worth eating.” The memory softened the edges of his usually guarded tone, and I imagined the warmth he felt just thinking about it.

A smile tips my lips as I recall that day. It was a tiny light; a firefly in the dark. Truthfully, I think it was a defining moment for him—for both of us.

After discarding the candy and searching through the fridge, I place ingredients on the counter, my feet cool against the worn tile. Just as I grab a box of refrigerated pie crust, a knock sounds at the door. My fingers curl around the box, and I wonder if it could be Isaac—or someone else.

The Timekeeper is still out there , my mind screams.

It would be like him to knock.

But then a voice seeps through the door, settling my nerves. “It’s me.”

Blowing out a relieved breath, I pad across the apartment and pull open the door. Isaac hovers in the entryway, his hair wet and matted to his forehead, shoulder wedged against the frame as he drinks me in. I’m not exactly dressed to impress, wearing a form-fitting pink tank top and baggy white sweatpants, my hair braided over one shoulder. His eyes settle on the braid, a flicker of something dark and possessive lighting in his gaze, like he’s already imagining his fingers wrapped around it, tugging hard and using it as some kind of kinky noose.

Then he flits his attention to the box of pie crust pressed to the space between my breasts. “Lucky crust.”

My mouth ticks up with a smile as I step aside, allowing him entry. “I didn’t know if you were coming.”

“Said I was,” he says, sauntering through the threshold and rifling raindrops out of his hair.

“Your reply was noncommittal.”

“Was it?” He sniffs, his hands disappearing into the pockets of his damp blue jeans. “Guess I’ll spam you with a billion emojis next time.”

I close the door behind me and turn to face him.

We hold each other’s gaze for a suspended beat, and a wave of vulnerability washes over me. Isaac stands in my apartment, waiting for me to cook him dinner, and it feels…intimate. More so than the bevy of compromising positions we shared two nights ago, which seems illogical. Yet with every look, every touch, and every shared moment, the emotional connection between us deepens into something I’m struggling to fully understand.

Nervous energy sinks into me, shaking my words. “Um…you said you missed chicken pot pie.”

He frowns a little, glancing down at the box of crust dangling at my side. “You remembered that?”

A nod. “Sara used to make it.”

The sound of her name has him visibly tensing, his throat rolling.

He doesn’t respond.

“Anyway, I figured we could talk. You know…hang out.” Chewing on my lip, I shuffle past him to the closet-sized kitchen. “Maybe with our clothes on?”

“Don’t understand the question.”

I shoot him a grin as I pull ingredients out of their packaging. “You got here fast,” I say. “Did I interrupt your stalking?”

“I was in the area.” Isaac glances at a kitchen barstool, almost like taking a seat would somehow solidify the moment. Give our dynamic a new weight, a different meaning. A breath passes, and he sits down, pressing his elbows to the island. “How was your date?”

Averting my eyes, I shake my head as I reach for a paring knife. “I told you my meeting with Jasper wasn’t a date.”

“Did you wear a dress?”

“Nope. Hoodie and jeans.”

“Was your hair down?”

I blink over at him and position a stalk of celery on a cutting board. “Yes.”

“He’s already dead.”

A laugh slips out. “Trust me, I have no interest in rekindling that relationship. It was all business. Platonic.”

He eyes the vegetables as the knife slices down. “So, what was the point?”

“Closure, I think. And he wants me to get back into modeling.” I move to unwrap a stick of butter. “I’m considering it.”

Isaac steeples his hands under his chin, watching me flit around the kitchen. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Some parts of the industry felt suffocating and empty—people barking orders, the rehearsed poses and smiles—but there were times when it felt like I was part of something bigger. Like I wasn’t invisible. People saw me, you know?”

His brows knit together. “And that’s enough to make you want to go back?”

“Not exactly,” I admit, pressing forward on the island. “It’s more like… I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering what might have happened if I’d just pursued it longer. What if I could’ve made it on my own terms?” I shrug, glancing away. “There’s a big runway show on Friday. Jasper pulled some strings to get me on that stage. I think I want to give it a shot, then I can decide if it’s the right avenue for me.”

A darker look steals his expression. “You want to take a road trip down memory lane with your ex?”

Frowning, I shake my head. “No, it’s not like that. He’s not representing me professionally. And personally, it’s over between us. He’s with Allison, and I’m with—” My words cut short. I blink at him, clear my throat. “The show is local. It’ll only be for the day. And maybe I just want to prove to myself that I’m not running anymore.”

“What about bugs?”

“Bugs?” My nose wrinkles.

“Yeah. The Everly I know is a scientist. She dreams of discovering new species of beetles and butterflies, not rising fashion trends.”

I pause, simmering in the statement.

That is what I want.

But it feels like a distant memory, overshadowed by the helplessness I experienced in captivity. In that cruel, dark place, smothered by despair, I yearned for the freedom to explore, to make discoveries that mattered. I wanted to help people, to bring light to the world in any way I could.

Now, as I stand here, the weight of my fallen dreams feels heavier than ever. Just another sad reminder of who I used to be.

“I do want that,” I say, steadying my breath as I go back to chopping vegetables. “I want to help people, change lives. But it goes beyond entomology. I want to be a voice for those who can’t speak for themselves. I’m just not sure if it’s too late for that.”

I realize I’m looking for guidance from a person who is just as lost as I am.

But Isaac seems to soften. He studies me across the island as he slowly slips out of his drenched leather coat, layering it over an adjacent stool. “You’re young. It’s never too late.”

My lips twitch, and I continue my task. “I’ve considered psychology.”

“You do love to talk.”

Another bitten-back grin. “That’s the thing, though. I spent two years acting as some kind of makeshift therapist, trying to help those people who never stood a chance. Talking them through their fears, listening to their regrets. Trying to give them something to hold on to in a place where there was no hope.” I falter, slicing through a carrot, feeling the tight grip of those memories and the icy chill of the ghosts left behind. “I couldn’t save any of them. Not one.”

Isaac’s gaze is uncharacteristically steady, almost gentle. “Maybe it’s not about talking or listening, but finding answers.”

I pause mid-chop, absorbing his words. “Finding answers?”

“Forensics.” He leans against the counter, watching me closely. “Think about it. You’re curious, observant—always digging deeper. You’d still be helping people with no voice, just in a different way. You’d be helping the ones they leave behind.”

The idea settles in my chest, surprisingly natural, as though it’s been waiting for this moment to emerge. Not just studying, but uncovering the truth.

Finding justice.

I think of all the victims who came and went, their stories left unfinished. I imagine the mothers, daughters, husbands, all waiting for their loved one to come home. My eyes glaze over, prickling with tears, a quiet resolve blossoming inside me.

Forensics.

Yeah…maybe I could do that.

Someday.

I nod, exhaling a breath as I set the knife down on the counter. But before I can reply, Isaac stands from the stool, winding around the small island until he reaches me, his hands curling around my waist and tugging me to him.

Deflating, I peer up at him, my body responding to the heat in his eyes, the intensity of his grasp. “Dinner first,” I murmur, my fingers crawling up his chest and bracketing his shoulders.

“Mmm. I have a different menu in mind.” He bends, brushing his lips along my ear. “Thinking of you in a forensic lab, wearing a little lab coat, all this hair pulled back…fucking sexy.”

“There would be corpses.”

He hauls me up by the thighs, coiling my legs around his hips. “At least they won’t interrupt.”

“Romantic.” I kiss him, biting down on his bottom lip until he groans. “I’ll bring the scalpel, you bring the flowers.”

“Thought it was cigarettes and bubble tea.” He smirks through another kiss.

Isaac carries me to the bedroom, tossing me onto the unmade bed. The mattress bounces beneath my weight as his body covers mine, and I arch up, drawing our faces together. It’s the usual frenzy of clothes tearing, hair being pulled, stretched limbs—nails, teeth, moans. My knees are shoved back, folding me in half, as he cages me in with both hands and slams inside.

I bow, bend, break into pieces.

It begins with urgency, hard thrusts and eager cries. I half-expect him to rip off a pillowcase and tie my wrists to the bedposts, spinning me inside out, upside down, until I’m seeing double and begging for mercy. But instead, he wraps my legs around his middle and lowers himself on top of me, our chests flush together. He cups my cheek, his touch tender.

I find his eyes.

We hold.

A new feeling churns between us, his movements slowing. There’s a crease between his brows, a sentiment I can’t pinpoint. My breath hitches on a whimper. I lift my hands, sifting my fingers through his mess of slow-drying hair, but I don’t squeeze, don’t pull.

I savor.

Soft hair, soft eyes.

Intimacy coils around us, and I feel everything—more than his body pressed to mine, slick and hard. More than the dark intensity we’re used to chasing. It’s something that reaches under my skin and wraps itself around my ribs, clawing through the damaged chambers of my heart and stretching tight. His eyes glimmer with an affection I rarely see, like he’s holding something fragile in his hands and doesn’t know if he’s allowed to keep it.

Doesn’t know if he knows how.

Isaac moves—slower, deeper—and it feels like an unspoken promise neither of us knows how to voice. My pulse thrums with the rhythm he’s setting, a measured pace that leaves room to breathe. To feel . I pull his forehead to mine, closing my eyes, letting myself sink into this unexpected shift.

It’s like we’re peeling away all the layers of armor and debris we’ve wrapped around ourselves, each kiss a muted confession. The brush of his hand down my jaw tells me something that words never could. And when the orgasm crests, brimming to a peak, I grip the nape of his neck and bury his face into the curve of my throat as I cry out. Isaac ruts into me harder, pace quickening until he finds his release, spilling into me with a low groan.

Our bodies settle, drained and spent. A smile tugs at my lips, a warm honey feeling journeying through me as I curl a piece of his hair around my finger. I wait for him to drag me into his arms, to extend the moment and draw out the quiet intimacy that still hovers.

But he moves away, putting distance between us. The warmth fades, replaced by a familiar chill. His gaze is somewhere far away, his jaw tight, face unreadable.

I wait, my fingers still tracing the edge of his hair, hoping he’ll turn back, say something, anything to break the thickening silence. But he doesn’t. His expression hardens, his guard sliding back into place, and I feel him retreat even though he’s right beside me.

“Hey,” I murmur, inching closer. “Talk to me.”

He blinks up at the ceiling before lifting off the bed and searching for his clothes. “You still cooking?”

I swallow. “Isaac…”

“Or we could go for round two. I’ve got handcuffs in my car.”

Sitting up, I drag the bed sheets up my body and watch as he steps into his jeans and yanks them over his hips. I rub my lips together, thinking back to one of our past conversations. When he confided in me about his family. His awful upbringing.

Chicken pot pie.

Isaac never had anyone; he had no safety net, no support system. He was always in survival mode, fighting alone. Even now, I see it in his eyes—the walls he’s built to keep the world out. To keep everything good and pure at arm’s length.

All he had was Sara. And she was taken from him, ripped away like a limb torn from his body, leaving nothing but phantom pain behind. No matter how much time has passed, the loss feels raw, as if a part of him had been violently severed and never healed.

Every day is a reminder of what he couldn’t save, of what he couldn’t protect.

“I have something for you,” I say, my voice low, barely cutting through the tension.

He pauses, his hands stilling on the button of his jeans. His gaze shifts to me, wary, as though he’s already bracing for what I might say.

I inhale sharply, nerves sparking to life, then reach over to the nightstand drawer, pulling out a swirly blue teardrop that’s been with me since my darkest days. The guitar pick is featherlight inside my hand, its surface scuffed from years of use. I’ve held on to it all this time, a relic from captivity—a tiny, stubborn remnant of hope.

For both of us.

The room is dim, as rain continues to beat against the window. I slowly unclench my hand, revealing the small treasure nestled in my palm. His gaze locks onto it, his eyes widening slightly as he registers what I’m holding.

A mix of emotion washes over him—recognition, disbelief, a flicker of something deeper that seems to carve new lines across his face. For a moment, he’s stripped bare, the full weight of memories settling between us like a heavy fog.

He takes a step forward.

My breath suspends in the back of my throat as I wait. Watch. The pick shakes in my palm. I can’t read him, can’t find the words.

Isaac hesitates at the side of the bed, staring at my outstretched hand, his fingers splaying, then curling. He sinks down next to me, like his legs won’t hold him. Our shoulders graze, and I feel his muscles drawn tight as he leans forward, elbows to thighs.

Vision blurring through the sting of tears, I reach over, gently placing the pick in his hand and loosening my grip until it’s transported safely to his. His gaze locks on it, every breath heavy and labored, before he seals it in a closed palm and holds his fist to his mouth.

He doesn’t ask why I still have it, or how I managed to bring it with me.

I don’t think it matters.

I study him, unsure how to carry him through the moment. It’s big; bigger than I imagined. My eyes scan his profile, and I swear I see a glint of tears. The image is a lasso around my heart. An ambush, a tight snare. I can almost picture Sara as he described her—dark hair braided into pigtails, crystalline eyes, and a smile that changed people. I feel the warm, golden halo wrapped around her, glowing with music. Her favorite song plays in the back of my mind, a ghostly melody laced with heartbreak and love.

Wild Horses.

A tear slips down my cheek, my heart splintering.

There’s nothing to say.

But…maybe words aren’t needed. We clung to them for those bleak months, hollow echoes through walls we couldn’t cross. But now, there’s more. I can offer more, so much more than a whisper in the dark or a hand pressed to a cold, unyielding barrier.

Leaning forward, I wrap my arms around his bicep and rest my temple against his shoulder. That’s how we sit for a long time. Me, curled around his broken pieces, holding them together.

Seconds stretch into minutes—I don’t count them.

Then Isaac straightens beside me, inhaling deeply as he whispers, “She’d appreciate you taking care of it for her.”

My eyes close, more tears falling loose. I nod softly, squeezing him tighter.

His hand lifts, a warm palm cradling the back of my head as he threads his fingers through my hair, gently, like a silent thank you.

He presses a kiss to the side of my head.

And this moment, this frozen-in-time second, is all I need to carry me forward. Every second I counted alone on the other side of that wall—desperate to see him, begging for something to hold on to, aching for just one more —all perish under the weight of this one.

A quiet space to grieve.

To remember.

To rebuild what was lost.

We eat chicken pot pie side by side on my lumpy couch, listening to the steady drum of rain splashing against the window. Hours later, he leads me to the bedroom, where we lose ourselves again—clothes slipping away, skin warming skin, kisses lingering. I fall asleep nestled into the curve of his arm, my hand splayed over his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat.

When I wake the next morning, Isaac is gone.

But he left something behind.

Sitting beside me on the nightstand is a full glass of cranberry juice.