Page 21

CAL

She doesn’t say a word after that.

Doesn’t pull away either.

Just stays tucked into my side, head beneath my jaw, her hand still held between mine like something I didn’t know I was allowed to keep.

I don’t move.

Not until her breathing settles. Not until I feel her body start to wake against mine, muscles stretching, mind pulling toward the morning. Then I ease her up, slow and gentle, and kiss the crown of her head.

“I should get going,” she says, barely above a whisper.

I know what she’s thinking already. That she’s somehow worn out her welcome.

She should stay.

Everything in me is saying it. Quiet, insistent.

But I don’t, because it’s not about what I want.

“If that’s what you want, little one,” I murmur. “I’ll help. Go get ready.”

She nods against my chest. Doesn’t speak. Just rises from the couch with the quilt still tucked around her shoulders, as though she’s trying to carry the warmth with her. Like she already knows it’s going to be colder where she’s headed.

I move through the house like muscle memory, kettle refilled in case she wants more tea for the road, dog food scooped out with that old tin scoop she pretended not to admire yesterday. The fire’s low, so I stoke it. Add another log.

She reappears a few minutes later.

Her hair is brushed. Her boots laced. Luca is at her side, leash in his mouth like he knows it’s time. Cleo waits by the door, tail wagging slow.

Emmy’s bag is slung over one shoulder.

It’s too heavy, I can tell, but she doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t complain.

And that, more than anything, tells me she’s getting ready to face something hard.

I take the bag from her without asking.

She lets me.

She clips the dogs. Shrugs into her coat. And then—almost like it doesn’t matter—she pulls her phone from the front pocket of her bag and lights up the screen.

The screen lights up in her hand.

I don’t mean to look.

But I do.

Just a glance, and I see it.

The flood of notifications. Missed calls. Dozens of unread messages.

Some are from her parents.

Some are from her sister.

And then—at the bottom—

Whore.

He’ll never respect you .

My spine goes rigid.

Because I know those words.

Not personally.

But I know the kind of venom it takes to send them.

Especially from blood. Especially when you’re supposed to love someone enough to protect them from everything that hurts—and instead, you become the thing that hurts the most.

My grip tightens on her bag. Breath punches low in my gut.

Not because I’m surprised.

But because I see it now. So clearly it makes my vision blur.

This isn’t a one-time cruelty. This isn’t someone lashing out in a moment of heat.

This is a pattern. A rot in the foundation.

And the worst part is, I don’t think she even expected better.

She just stares at the screen for a second longer than she should.

Then turns it off.

Slips it back in her pocket like it’s nothing.

Like she doesn’t feel it burning through her.

But I do.

I see the way her throat moves when she swallows. The blink that takes a second too long. The soft fold of her shoulders, like she’s bracing for something heavier than just the weight of the bag.

And I—

God, I want to tear the phone from her pocket. I want to drive to that house, knock on the door, and make her sister say it to my face.

But I don’t.

Because this moment isn’t about justice.

It’s about her.

And I won’t make her carry my rage on top of everything else.

But I want—fuck, I want —to pick her up right now. Toss the bag. Drop the leash. Wrap her in the blanket still sitting on the couch and carry her straight back to bed.

Back to my bed.

Where no voice, no text, no past version of her life can reach her. Where I've been hoping, quietly and fiercely, that one day she'd let me be the place she comes back to. The place where she can breathe. The only shelter she needs.

But I don’t.

Because she’s not asking for that.

And I won’t take away her choice.

Even if it kills me.

Outside, the morning is quiet.

Too quiet.

Sunlight filters through the trees in pale gold streaks, catching on fresh leaves just beginning to unfurl. The air’s still cool, edged with that early-May crispness that clings to shade and rises from the damp ground like memory—but it’s not cold. Not really. Not anymore.

The truck is already warm from where it sat in the sun.

She clips the dogs into the backseat, fingers moving automatically, her head bowed like the weight of the air is pressing down harder now that we’ve left the cabin.

She hasn’t said a word since the phone.

She doesn’t need to.

I open her door. She climbs in with a soft thank you, barely audible.

And then we drive.

The woods are coming back to life—pale green buds, dandelions pushing through gravel at the roadside. But she doesn’t see them.

She’s staring out the window like every tree we pass brings her closer to something she doesn’t want to return to.

I watch her in the corner of my eye.

Shoulders pulled in again. Hands tucked into her sleeves. And I know. I know she’s bracing against what's waiting for her, folding inward like she’s tucking parts of herself out of reach.

I want to tell her to come back with me.

That she doesn’t have to go back at all.

But I don’t.

Not yet.

Not until we pass the ridge. Not until I’m sure no one’s following. Not until I’ve scanned the tree line enough times to know we’re alone.

Then I speak.

Quiet. Even.

“Baby.”

She doesn’t look at me, but I hear her breath catch. I know she’s listening.

My hands tighten just slightly on the wheel, voice low and deliberate.

“There are going to be rules now.”

Her breath catches, but she doesn’t interrupt.

I keep my eyes on the road.

“If you leave the house. If you take the dogs for a walk or a drive. If anything feels even a little bit off—you tell me.”

I pause.

Not for effect.

Just to make sure she’s breathing.

“I don’t care what time it is. Doesn’t matter if it’s nothing. Doesn’t matter if you think you’re overreacting.”

I glance over.

She’s watching me now.

Eyes wide. Hurt tucked beneath the surface. But there’s something else, too.

Something like hope.

“I’ll be there,” I say simply.

Then softer, because she needs to hear it like this:

“You’re never a bother, Emmy. Ever."

Her breath stutters—just slightly. Like the words caught her off guard. Like some piece of her had been bracing for the opposite, and now doesn't quite know how to hold the truth of it.

"You’re mine to protect. That’s not a burden. That’s the whole damn point.”

And I see it.

The way her shoulders drop—just a little. The way her body shifts toward me, like she doesn’t mean to, but wants to.

She still doesn’t say a word.

But that’s alright.

She doesn’t have to.

But her body’s speaking loud enough.

That small lean toward me. The way her fingers shift in her lap, like they want somewhere safe to land but don’t know if they’re allowed.

And I know.

She needs more than words.

So I reach.

Slow. Intentional.

My hand slips across the gearshift, steady and warm. I take hers gently—wait for the faint tremble in her fingers to settle before lifting it to my lips.

I press a kiss to the back of her hand.

To remind her of this morning. Of the way she woke up safe in my arms. Of the way she looked at me like maybe—just maybe—I wasn’t something to be afraid of.

I don’t drop her hand right away.

I just hold it.

Between us. Grounded.

“Do you understand?” I murmur.

Not a challenge.

A check-in.

An offering.

Her lips part like she might answer, but no sound comes out at first. Her throat works around it, eyes shining with too much—all of it too much.

She nods.

Barely.

But it’s enough.

I give her fingers the smallest squeeze. I feel the breath she takes.

The way it shudders on the way out, like she’s been holding it for hours. Maybe longer.

I loosen my hand.

Just a little.

Enough to let her go, if that’s what she needs.

But she doesn’t.

She holds tighter.

Fingers curling into mine, like she doesn’t want to be brave right now. Like she doesn’t want to pretend. Like she just needs me to hold on and mean it. Her grip is light but steady, an anchor more than a reach.

Not desperate. Just real. Just her way of saying: don’t let go unless I ask you to.

So I stay.

I leave my hand in hers, palm warm and open in her lap. Letting her keep it. Letting her have it.

We drive like that for a long time.

No more words.

Just the hush of the road. The low hum of the tires.

The occasional shift of her thumb brushing over my knuckles—like she’s grounding herself with me.

Like she doesn’t even realize she’s touching the same knuckles that have broken men before.

And yet her touch is the softest thing they’ve ever known.

And I am.

God help me, I am.

The closer we get, the quieter she gets.

Not a single word since she squeezed my hand.

She hasn’t let go.

But I feel it. The tension creeping back into her fingers, the dread tightening the air in the cab.

The road curves. Familiar trees turn to fences. Gravel shifts to asphalt. And there it is.

Her house.

If you could call it that.

Modest. Unassuming. But even from here, I can feel it pressing in on her. The weight of it. The way it shrinks her.

There’s no one visible out front. No cars pulled in behind mine. But the curtains in the front window twitch.

Someone’s watching.

Of course they are.

She still hasn’t let go of my hand.

I pull the truck to a full stop and shift into park, but I don’t move.

Neither does she.

She just stares out the windshield. Not at anything. Just… through it.

And everything in me starts to burn.

Between the shadows crawling back from my past and the ones waiting at the door of hers—there’s not a single cell in my body that wants to leave her here.

Not when I know what’s waiting.

Not after last night. After everything she let me see. Everything she gave—without saying a word.

My cabin isn’t mine anymore.

Not fully.