Page 12

EMMY

I wake slow.

Not to yelling. Not to the house shaking with slammed doors. Just… light. Soft across the curtains. Warm on my face.

The weight is still there, but it’s shifted this morning. Like something old has loosened its grip, making space for something gentler. It hums low and dull, not stabbing or suffocating. Just the weight of something new trying to settle where old hurt used to be.

The phone is still in my hand.

I blink the screen awake.

Sleep well, little one.

My stomach flips. It feels like I’ve been pulled back to a softer version of myself. One that's hopeful, uncertain, like someone reached into the quiet and offered something gentle without asking for anything in return.

I don’t overthink it. Not this time.

Good morning.

Send.

Then I stare at it like I’ve just upended the world.

His reply comes faster than I expect:

Good morning, sweet girl. I was just about to message you.

My heart skips and I swear my vision tunnels at sweet girl.

I’m heading into town. Thought I’d stop by first, if you’re up for a drive.

I bite my lip.

He doesn’t say breakfast. Doesn’t say I miss you or please.

But I remember the way he traced the scar on my pinkie yesterday, as though it was something to be held, wordless and warm.

The way he waited for me to finish speaking, even when the silence stretched long.

It's there now, in the stillness of his message.

In the waiting. In the quiet certainty that whatever this is, he means it.

And I want to go. God, I want to.

But instead of just saying yes, I do what I always do. Shrink a little. Tuck in.

If it’s not too out of your way, I’d really like that.

The reply comes:

It’s not.

Ten minutes.

I scramble.

Teeth brushed. Hair pinned. Something soft and neutral pulled on. A sweater I like. A pair of jeans that fit just right, even if I never say that out loud.

By the time I’m lacing up my boots, I hear it. The low, smooth growl of the Chevelle pulling up outside.

I press my fingers to the curve of my throat. Try to will the beat of my heart into something quieter.

No use.

Then comes the knock.

It makes me freeze. Just for a second.

I wasn’t expecting it.

Because I’m not used to effort. To someone coming to the door just for me. To someone waiting.

It’s not loud. Not rushed.

Just steady.

Like him.

I rush toward the door before anyone else can answer, but pause for a moment, trying to gather myself. And then, I open the door.

And there he is.

Dressed in black again—long sleeves pushed up, jeans that fit too well, boots dusted from gravel. He’s holding a tray of coffees. And something in a paper bag.

His eyes land on mine. And they don’t move. My breath hitches, chest tightening like I’ve been caught mid-thought. There’s a flutter low in my belly, sharp and unexpected, as if his gaze alone could unmake me.

“You said you liked it sweeter,” he says, voice low and certain, like he’s been carrying that memory close. He lifts the cup in his left hand slightly. “Wanted to make sure you had it just the way you like it. Didn’t know how sweet, so I brought two—one’s black, just in case.”

My throat catches. Something tight and bright sparks behind my ribs.

“I… thank you.”

His mouth lifts just barely. That almost-smile. “Got one for your mom, too. And whoever else is inside.”

That makes my stomach flip again. Not because of the coffee. But because he thought about it. About what walking through that door might be like.

I step aside, wordless, and let him in.

The house smells like dish soap and cold toast. Mom is at the table, flipping through a grocery flyer. She looks up—polite, but cautious. Her smile is thin, practiced. Her eyes bounce from him to me, and back again.

“Good morning,” she says carefully. “You must be Cal?”

She doesn’t say it unkindly. Just with the air of someone trying to understand the shape of a new variable. The weight of it.

Cal nods once, polite but not performative. “Morning, ma’am.”

He holds out a coffee and the bag. “Brought muffins too. Hope that’s alright.”

She doesn’t take it right away.

Then, slowly, she does. Still watching him. Still thinking.

Dad doesn’t say a word.

He’s by the garage door, half in, half out, leaning against the frame like it owes him something. His gaze flicks to the Chevelle, and that’s where it stays.

“That black Chevelle,” Dad says, still not looking at me. “Saw it last week. Thought it was you.”

Then, casually: “Is it all original? Matching numbers?”

He doesn’t comment on me. Doesn’t ask where we’re going. Just goes on, like I’m not even there.

Cal’s eyes shift. Just slightly. He registers it.

But he doesn’t flinch.

“Yes, sir,” Cal says simply. “She is.”

Then he turns back to me.

He holds the door open with one hand, the tray still balanced in the other like it’s no effort at all. Like making space for me is second nature.

“Ready?”

I nod. Grateful. Flustered. A little stunned.

I grab my bag from the hook by the door.

And as I step out beside him, I feel it—that strange weight of someone who sees it all.

And doesn’t look away.

The Chevelle hums beneath us like something alive. The engine isn’t loud, not the way you’d think. It’s smooth. Deep. Like a steady breath you can feel in your chest.

He drives with one hand on the wheel. The other resting lightly near the shifter. Casual. Comfortable. Like the car is part of him.

I can’t help it. I glance over. Then ask, softly, “How long have you had it?”

He looks at me. Briefly. Then back to the road.

“Long time,” he says. “Since I was young. Before everything else.”

His voice shifts on that last part. Not heavy. Just a weight set down quietly.

I nod, fingers trailing along the door panel. “I figured it had history. The way you drive it—it’s not just a car. It listens to you.”

A flicker of something crosses his face. Not surprise. But something close to softness.

“Most people ask if it’s fast. Or how much it’s worth.”

I glance out the window. “I know it isn’t about that.”

I pause, watching the road stretch out ahead of us.

“My bike’s like that too,” I add quietly. “It’s not just about the ride. It’s about knowing I can get away if I need to. About having something that listens back.”

He doesn’t say anything for a beat. Just drives.

Then, his voice softens. “You alright?”

The words come gently. Like an offer. Like I can set something down, too, if I want to.

I shrug, but it’s not a real one. “I know my family’s a lot.”

“That’s not what I asked, baby."

I go quiet. Because I don’t know how to answer. Because I kind of want to cry, and I don’t want to ruin this.

And that word—baby—settles over me like warmth through chilled skin. It’s new. Just as soft as little one, somehow. A different kind of endearment, but no less intimate. It unravels something I didn’t know was knotted inside me.

I wonder, dizzy and aching, if he even knows what that does to me.

But then he says it.

“You don’t owe anyone permission to be gentle with yourself. You hear me? That kindness belongs to you—it always has.”

A tight breath rises before I can stop it. It’s not the kind of thing I’ve ever been told. Not in that way, not with care.

I don’t respond right away.

But I know I’ll carry those words for a long, long time.

We don’t drive toward town.

Not at first.

I glance over. “I thought you said you were heading in?”

He nods, eyes steady on the road. “I am. Eventually.”

A pause.

“But I thought this might be better first.”

The Chevelle glides into a narrow turnout I never noticed before. A quiet patch above the water, tucked behind a screen of trees. There’s space for one car and a view that stretches out past the mist and then nothing but ocean. The kind of place that feels like a secret.

He kills the engine. Doesn’t say anything. Just gets out.

Comes around to open my door.

Not flashy. Not showy.

Just… considerate.

The way he always is.

I step out slowly, the air cooler here. Salt-tinged and sharp.

He retrieves the same tray from earlier—now missing a couple of cups—and sets it on the hood beside us. There are two mismatched mugs beside it, like he planned ahead. He pops the lid on the paper cups, and pours into the mugs.

He hands me the same one he gave me yesterday—the one with the little faded flowers near the handle. Like it’s mine now. Like he’s decided.

“Tea,” he says again, with a tip of a smile. “Black. But a little sweet.”

My fingers wrap around the mug, warmth blooming into my palms.

“Thank you,” I say. Then add, a little shyly, “Coffee’s always too bitter. I like the softness in tea. The sweetness.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze flicks to the steam rising from his cup, then to the view beyond the hood. One thumb strokes absentmindedly along the curve of the mug, like he’s measuring his words, or feeling them settle.

When he does, it’s with a smile—soft and warm and real.

“Yeah,” he says. “That fits.”

And something in my chest opens just a little wider.

We sit like that for a long moment.

Not saying much.

Just breathing in the quiet.

The breeze moves through the trees above us, light and cool. His arm is close—shoulder brushing the edge of mine every time he shifts slightly. His hand, the free one, is braced against the hood between us.

I glance at it. Just for a second.

Strong. Callused. Familiar now.

It’s the same hand that held mine yesterday. Gentle in a way that shouldn’t make sense for a man like him.

But it does.

It makes too much sense, and I look away before my heart can leap ahead of itself.

Then I glance at the bag beside him.

“You didn’t have to do all this.”

He looks at me. Not away. Never away.

“I know,” he says.

Then, after a breath—

“But I wanted to.”

We sip in silence for a moment more, the steam curling between us. The view stretches out in front of us, water soft with mist, the sky still holding onto morning gray.

“It’s weird,” I say softly. “I’m not used to this. Just… sitting. Being.”

He looks over, patient. Letting me finish.

“It usually feels like I have to earn it. Or escape to find it.”

Cal doesn’t rush to answer. He never does. When he finally speaks, his voice is low.

“That’s not how it should be.”

Then, quieter. Firmer:

“You deserve peace, Emmy.”

For a second, I don’t breathe. I want to believe him, but the words hit a place I’ve kept hidden—one that’s not sure how to hold something so kind. So certain. Part of me flinches from it, like it can’t be for me.

He says it like it’s a truth he’s known longer than I’ve known him. Like he’s sure. Like he’d stake something on it.

And I feel that line sink into me like warmth into cold hands—gentle, certain, and slow to fade.

He sets his cup down on the hood beside him. Looks out at the water. Then back at me.

“I want to keep seeing you.”

The words are steady. Unflinching.

“Not because you pass by. Not by chance.”

His gaze doesn’t waver.

“I want more. More time. More truth. More of you.”

A tremble stirs in my hands. My grip tightens slightly around the warm mug in my hands. I can’t look at him right away, not fully. My eyes drift to his hand beside mine, the one that had held me like something precious.

And when I finally lift my gaze, he’s already watching me.

Like I’m the only thing that matters.

Like he means every word.

“Me?” I whisper, almost disbelieving. The sound catches in my throat, small and raw. Like the question slipped out before I could stop it, because some part of me still doesn’t believe I’m the one someone could choose.

But he doesn’t blink. Doesn’t falter.

He nods.

“Yes. No one else,” he says, the words soft but firm.

His eyes hold mine with quiet finality, like there was never a question in his mind.

Like he’s known all along that I was the only one.

Possessive not in the way that cages, but in the way that claims. A steady truth planted in the middle of all my doubt.

And something in me responds to that, something warm and aching. My heart cracks open in a way that feels like light.

His hand, still braced on the hood, shifts closer. Fingers barely brushing mine.

“You make it hard not to hope,” I say, voice shaking. My fingers graze his on the hood—just barely—and a shiver traces up my spine. The warmth of his skin, the quiet pressure of his presence, makes the hope feel dangerously real.

He leans in.

Not rushed.

Just steady.

His hand lifts slowly. Fingers brushing my cheek, tracing the line of my jaw like he’s memorizing it. Like he needs to feel the reality of me under his palm.

He holds me there. Not tight. Just enough to let me know I don’t have to go anywhere.

Like he’s saying, without a word, that I’m exactly where I belong.

That this space—in his arms, under his gaze—is one he’s claimed for me.

Quietly. Unshakably. Like he’s already drawn the line around us and dared the world to cross it.

I don’t pull away.

I wouldn’t.

And when his lips touch mine, it’s soft. Certain. Possessive in the gentlest way, like he’s marking the moment into me.

His lips move with a kind of reverence, his breath warm against my cheek, one thumb brushing slow across my skin like he’s trying to remember how I feel. He’s not just kissing me; he’s telling me something. Something he won’t let me forget.

It’s not hurried.

It’s intentional.

A first kiss that feels like a promise. Like patience. Like finally.

And beneath all that softness—there’s something else.

Not rough. Not demanding.

But like he’s claiming me, in the quietest way. Not because he owns me. But because he’s made the choice to be mine… and for me to be his.

It’s there in the way his hand stays on my jaw, thumb brushing just beneath my cheekbone. In the way his body leans in; not to trap, but to keep. To shield.

Like he’s saying: You’re mine. And I’ll take care of you, no matter what. Like he’s already made that decision for both of us—and he won’t let me forget it.

And not because I’m small or breakable.

But because I’m his to take care of. Because he’s already decided I’m worth keeping safe.

When we finally pull back, it’s only just.

His hand stays at my jaw, thumb still warm against my skin.

His forehead presses to mine, like he’s anchoring both of us there. The air between us is still charged.

His breath mingles with mine. Slow and even.

And then, his voice—low and rich, warm enough to curl around every bruised part of me—finds its way in:

“You don’t ever have to earn this, little one. Not with me.”

His words don’t just soothe. They wrap around me, like a coat shrugged over my shoulders. Like arms that don’t close in, but open up.

Safe, wanted, chosen.

And it settles somewhere deep. Where all the broken, tender parts live.

I close my eyes.

And I believe him.