Page 22

Not after she curled up on my couch like it was the first place she’d ever rested.

Not after she kissed her fingertips into my palm with her trust.

That place?

It’s hers now too.

Her real home.

Not this house. Not this cold shell of familiarity soaked through with judgment and silence and the kind of cruelty that comes in questions that pretend to be concern.

This isn’t where she should be.

But I don’t say it.

Because if I do, I won’t be able to let her go.

I stay quiet.

Just hold her hand.

And wait.

Her hand rests in mine like it’s caught between letting go and holding on. Her gaze is fixed on the front door. Not in longing. Not even in fear.

Just… resignation.

Like she’s already tucking herself back into the smallness they expect. And it hits me low, like a punch under the ribs. Like something sharp carving through the soft parts I've only just seen her start to show. Like the past twenty-four hours were borrowed light, and now she has to return it.

She clears her throat softly. “I should… go in.”

Not I want to.

Not I need to.

Just I should.

I don’t let go of her hand.

Instead, I bring my other hand up—rest it gently over hers, both palms warm, surrounding her fingers like they’re something I intend to keep safe.

I don’t trust the silence to hold everything I want to say. And I can’t let her walk in there without something tethering her back to me.

“You’ll come back tonight,” I say.

Not a question.

A quiet certainty.

Her eyes snap to mine, wide with surprise.

“You don’t have to,” she starts, the words rushing out like she’s trying to spare me. “I mean, if you’re busy or if it’s—”

“No.”

It’s soft. But it stops her cold.

I brush my thumb across her knuckles.

“I want you back, Emmy. Tonight.”

She doesn’t breathe.

“I’ll come get you,” I add, firmer now. “No walking.”

That hits her in a different place—somewhere deeper. I see it in the way her mouth trembles, in the way her eyes go glassy all over again.

“But—” she tries, weakly. “I don’t want to be—”

“You’re not,” I cut in. “Not a bother. Not a burden.”

I wait until she’s looking at me again.

Then I say it like a vow.

“You’re mine to take care of. And I’m not letting you walk home again. Ever.”

Her breath hitches—just the slightest tremble—but I feel it like a shout. Like her body hears the promise and wants so badly to believe it’s real.

She nods, tiny.

That small, fragile motion like she’s trying to believe it’s true. Like she wants to trust what I said—but the years before this moment still press too heavily on her shoulders.

And it undoes me. Because wanting to believe is its own kind of bravery. Because that flicker of hope in her, no matter how quiet, makes me want to be the man who never gives her a reason to doubt it again.

I press a kiss to the back of her hand again.

Then I let her go.

Because for now, she still thinks she has to.

My jaw clenches so hard it aches. My throat tightens around everything I’m not saying—everything I want to promise her but know she’s not ready to hear. Not yet.

But not for long.

I open the door for her anyway.

Luca hops out first. Cleo follows.

Emmy climbs down slowly, steadying herself on the edge of the seat like she’s bracing for something. And I hate that. Hate that she expects the world to hurt the second her boots hit the gravel.

She doesn’t look back when she walks up the path.

Her hair moves a little in the breeze. My shirt still loose around her wrist, half-hidden beneath her coat.

She doesn’t turn around.

But I don’t move.

I watch her go.

All the way to the door. Every step drags something taut inside me—like watching light disappear through a crack I can't hold open. Something inside me knots—slow and visceral—like a tether straining at its end. Like my body’s already leaning toward her, even as I sit frozen, fingers stiff against the wheel even as I stay rooted in place.

And still, I sit there.

Hands tight on the wheel.

Jaw locked.

Heart pounding in a rhythm that feels too much like don’t leave her there.

But I do.

Because she’s not mine to keep.

Not yet.

But God, she’s mine to protect.

And that truth sits heavy in my chest—like armor I can’t take off. It’s the thing that drives my next breath, steadies my hands on the wheel.

And I’ll be back tonight.

Even if she’s not ready to ask for it.

I’ll be back.

Because that house is not her home.

Mine is.

And whether she knows it or not—

She already belongs there.

She disappears inside.

The door shuts behind her, soft like a held breath.

And I stay.

Hands braced on the wheel. Eyes locked on the house that doesn’t deserve her.

I don’t see anyone.

But I feel it.

The tension in the walls. The heat behind the curtains. The weight of words I didn’t get to hear—but that she’s been carrying since the moment she turned her phone on.

She walked into it like she was preparing for war. Shoulders squared too tightly, chin tilted just enough to fake indifference. The morning light caught on the set of her jaw, sharp and resigned—like her own armor she’s worn too long to even notice the weight of anymore.

And I let her go.

For now.

Because she asked nothing of me.

But that doesn’t mean I’ll stay still.

I don’t move for another thirty seconds. Maybe more. Just long enough to watch the shadows shift. Just long enough to get one last glimpse of her shape passing behind the window—shoulders rounded, head bowed.

And that’s it.

That’s all it takes.

I put the truck in drive.

Pull away slow. Controlled.

And I start planning.

I’ll use this time.

This one day she thinks she has to spend inside that house, shrinking herself small enough to survive.

I’ll use it to start neutralizing whatever threat has dared put itself in her orbit.

Whether it came in the form of a black sedan on the ridge road…

Or a goddamn message on her phone.

They won’t reach her.

Not again.

Not while I’m still breathing.