Page 17

CAL

She sleeps.

On me.

Like it’s nothing. Like the shape of her fits against me in a way that quiets everything else. Like my body was built to hold her there. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it should be. Maybe this—her head on my chest, her whole body curled soft and trusting across my lap—isn’t a miracle at all.

But it feels like one.

An ex-operative with too many ghosts in his blood… lulling a girl like her to sleep with nothing but steady hands and a quiet film?

Yeah. It feels like a goddamn miracle.

I don’t move.

I don’t even breathe too hard.

Because this this peace is sacred. And rare.

And then I see it.

Just through the narrow break in the curtains, out past the trees.

A flicker of movement. The glint of headlights cutting too sharp through the dusk.

Then the crunch.

Gravel.

The sound of something watching, not passing through.

Every part of me sharpens.

I ease her gently to the couch, one arm still curled protectively around her even as I shift. She stirs but doesn’t wake.

“Shh,” I murmur, brushing her hair back. “I’ve got you.”

She makes the faintest sound, something small and content, and leans ever so slightly into my touch—like even in sleep, she hears me. Like she knows.

Then I rise.

Silent. Precise.

I cross to the window, scan the treeline.

And there it is.

A black sedan. Parked just down the ridge, tucked like it thinks I won’t see it. No plates. No reason to be here.

My jaw tightens, pressure coiling low in my chest. The kind that doesn't show yet—but promises it will.

I slip outside, boots barely making a sound on the porch, eyes fixed and calculating.

The car is gone by the time I make it down the steps, but it was there. I know it was.

The past, maybe.

Names and faces that I vowed to never see again.

I wait. Count to thirty. Then return inside.

The second I step back through the door, she’s awake.

Blinking. Rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. Voice sleepy and a little guilty.

“Sorry,” she mumbles. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep. I just… I didn’t sleep great last night. And this—being here…”

She trails off. Then looks up at me.

“Was it that car again?”

Everything in me stills.

I cross the room in two steps. Squat down in front of her, my tone calm. Focused.

“What car?”

She blinks again, the fog of sleep fading just enough to clock my expression. Her fingers fumble for her phone.

“There was this… black sedan. No plates. It passed me on the ridge when I was walking. I wasn’t sure if I should say anything. I didn’t want to—”

I hold out my hand.

“Let me see.”

And when she places the phone in my palm, her fingers brushing mine, I know it.

This was no accident.

The world’s about to shift.

And she’s already in the center of it.

I study the photo she hands me.

Thumb moves across the screen, zooms in. The sedan is just barely visible past the bend—dark, blurred, unmistakably wrong. No plates. Tinted windows. Slow like it was watching, not passing through.

My jaw tightens. I don’t let it show.

I hand the phone back to her.

She hesitates. “Is it… is something wrong?”

I don’t look away.

“No,” I say evenly. Not a lie. Just not everything.

Then, quieter. Not for the world. Just for her.

“You were smart to take the picture.”

She nods. Small. Tight. But I can see it—the way her fingers still, her breath pulling just a little too shallow. She’s trying to keep it down. I don’t blame her.

I move toward her again. Drop into a crouch beside the couch where she’s still half-curled in the blanket. My palm finds her knee beneath the fabric. Warm. Solid.

“Hey,” I murmur. “You’re safe here, little one.”

She looks at me. And even through the worry, the hesitation—I see it. The flicker of trust. The ache of needing to believe someone.

And when she nods—small, hesitant, brave—it hits me in the chest. Something in me steadies, anchors. But it also sharpens. I’d burn down the world to keep that nod from ever turning into a flinch.

“Okay.”

I give her leg a soft squeeze. Then I rise, letting my hand fall away only once I know she’s grounded again. I glance toward the clock above the mantle.

Just past eleven.

Late enough that she shouldn’t go. That I won’t let her go.

My jaw tightens, then eases. I turn back toward her, voice low. Measured.

“It’s late. You’re tired.”

She starts to shift, already moving like she’s going to leave, even though every inch of her is saying stay. I see it in the way her fingers clutch the edge of the blanket.

“I can head out,” she murmurs.

I lift my hand—close, not touching. Just enough to stop the motion.

“You could stay,” I say.

She freezes.

No pressure. No edge in my voice. But something steadier underneath. Something I can’t quite hide.

I clear my throat. “If you wanted to. No pressure. I can take the couch.”

She blinks up at me, dazed. “Really?”

I nod. “It’s no trouble.”

The truth is, it would be trouble. Trouble not to have her here. Trouble to let her leave when I haven’t figured out what the hell that car was doing on the ridge. When I don’t know who’s watching, or why.

But I don’t say that.

I just look at her. Let her see whatever’s written on my face. Let her make the call.

She whispers it, so quiet I almost miss it.

“Okay.”

Relief slips through me. Not visible. But real.

“Good,” I say gently, then straighten. “Come on, baby. I’ll get you something to sleep in.”

She follows with minimal hesitation, and something loosens deep in my gut—quiet, subtle, but enough to breathe easier.

I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until she said it. Until she agreed to stay.

Not because I didn’t think she’d want to.

Because I don’t know what I’d do if she didn’t.

My mind is already moving a hundred miles ahead even as my body stays still. Measured. Calm.

She stays with me, small and quiet in her blanket, feet light on the floor.

I keep my expression neutral. Keep my steps slow, deliberate. But inside?

Inside, I’m burning.

My fists curl tight at my sides, jaw clenched so hard it aches. The fire doesn’t flare; it simmers. Controlled. Dangerous. Waiting.

That car—no plates. Tinted windows. Lurking. Watching. And she walked here. Alone . In the dark.

I saw it. I felt it.

And if it’s tied to me—if some remnant of my old life is clawing its way back up from the dirt—I’ll end it.

Before it ever touches her.

We reach the bedroom.

I step in first, flipping on the lamp. It’s a plain room. Quiet. A heavy, comfortable bed, warm blankets. My books on the nightstand. A weathered cedar chest at the foot. Nothing fancy. Nothing loud.

But she looks at it like it’s something sacred.

And maybe it is.

I cross to the dresser, pull out one of my softest shirts—worn cotton, dark gray, still carrying the faint scent of soap and cedar and me. I hesitate for half a second, then bring it over.

She stands just inside the doorway, blanket still wrapped around her shoulders. Looking at everything with that quiet awe that makes me feel like I’m showing her something holy.

I hold the shirt out to her. “This alright?”

She nods. Looks down at it like it means something. Like I’ve just given her more than cotton and thread.

“It’s perfect,” she whispers.

And fuck. Something in me shakes. I want to reach out—just to touch her hand, her hair, anything that might steady the storm she doesn't even know she’s kicked up. But I don’t. I hold it in. Because this isn't about me. It's about her, and making sure she feels safe enough to want more.

I don’t say anything. Just nod once and leave the room.

Not because I want to.

Because I need a second. Alone. To keep my hands steady.

I step into the hallway, drag a slow breath through my nose.

And for just a second—I let it show.

The tension. The fury. The terror that bloomed in my chest the second I saw that car, and the second after, when I realized she hadn’t told me about it.

She didn’t want to ruin anything.

She thought asking for help would be too much.

Fuck.

And now she’s here, going to sleep in my cabin, wrapped in my blanket, slipping into my shirt—and I don’t know who the fuck is out there watching us.

But I know this.

They’ll never touch her.

Not while I’m breathing.

I stay out there longer than I should. One hand braced against the wall, eyes shut.

The weight of it pressing down on me—the near-miss, the could’ve-been, the fact that she didn’t say a word.

The fear, the helplessness, the way it knots tight behind my sternum, coiling like it’s trying to claw its way out.

But I’ve got no time for that. She’s here now. Safe.

And I need to be the kind of man who keeps her that way.

I square my shoulders, take another breath, and turn back to the door. My hand hesitates just a beat before I knock, soft.

No answer.

I ease the door open anyway—just a few inches. Just enough.

And then I see her.

On my bed. On my bed.

Curled beneath the blanket like she belongs there, because she does. The sleeves of my shirt hang loose on her wrists, bunched up where her hands tuck beneath her cheek. The smallest smile playing on her lips. Peaceful. Like she hasn’t slept in a year and finally found a place that feels like home.

It wrecks me.

I mean, wrecks me.

My throat tightens, something in me lurching hard—like her peace is too bright to look at head-on.

And there’s a part of me, dark and selfish and stupid, that wants to climb in next to her.

Wants to wrap around her and stay like that until morning.

Until the nightmares don’t come. Until the world forgets to be so goddamn cruel.

But I don’t.

Because she’s been scared enough for one night.

And if she wakes up to find me beside her, maybe that fear will still be sitting in her bones. Maybe she’ll think she has to give something just because I was kind. Just because I let her in. And I don’t want her to give me anything.

I just want her safe.

So I pull the door shut, slow and silent. Let it click into place.

The couch groans when I sink into it, too short for my legs. I grab a spare pillow, toss an old quilt over myself. The place smells like her now—soft and warm, like citrus shampoo and something sweeter beneath it. It makes my chest ache.

The ceiling’s too dark to look at, too full of questions. So I close my eyes.

I listen to the sounds of the cabin settling, to the wind against the glass, to the quiet rhythm of her breathing through the wall.

And I make a promise I don’t say out loud.

No one touches her.

No one makes her feel small or scared or unworthy ever again.

Not if I can help it.

Not while I’m still here. Still breathing. Still willing to burn the whole damn world down just to keep her in one piece.

Even if all I ever get is this. Just the weight of her in my home, her scent in my sheets, the soft rhythm of her breath in the next room. If this is all I’m allowed—watching over her from a distance—then it’s enough. I’ll take it. I’ll protect it.

A girl in my bed, wearing my shirt, dreaming safe.

Looking like something I’ve waited my whole life to find.

And me on the couch, breathing like it’s a prayer.