Page 25

EMMY

My heart is beating too fast.

Not loud, or wild, just fast.

Like I’m holding something I wasn’t meant to touch.

The wind picks up around me as the car drives off, sweeping across the field like it wants to erase the whole moment. But it can’t. Not from my body. Not from my skin. Not from the trembling that’s just now starting in my hands.

I turn away slowly.

Luca returns to my side without being called. Cleo’s already ahead, nose down in a patch of grass, like she didn’t just witness me disobey the one rule he gave me.

Don’t approach.

But I did.

Because I had to.

Because when I saw him step out of that car, saw the way he moved like he belonged somewhere he didn’t, like he expected me to come to him—I knew.

It wasn’t random.

It was someone from Cal’s world.

And I knew I’d never get another chance.

I felt the tracker in my pocket the whole time, a smooth coin of metal pressing against my fingers like it knew it was meant for this.

So I smiled, spoke softly. Pointed at Luca, who obligingly took off after a bird like it was his idea.

And when the man glanced away, I crouched—just a little. Just for a second.

Slipped it into the curve behind the bumper.

A magnetic click.

Quick.

Done.

I didn’t breathe again until I was walking away.

And now…

Now I can’t stop.

My breath shudders out of me like I’m falling apart molecule by molecule.

My knees feel shaky, like they might give out.

My hands are tingling, cold at the fingertips.

It’s like the fear’s still leaving me, molecule by molecule too.

Like the courage I borrowed is evaporating, and all that’s left is me.

And the guilt.

Because I broke the rule.

I broke the rule.

And even if I did it for the right reason—even if I wanted to help—I know him.

I know how careful he is.

How much it costs him to feel afraid.

And I made him feel it.

I know I did.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, voice lost in the wind. “Please don’t be mad.”

My phone’s still in my pocket. I haven’t looked at it.

I can’t.

Not yet.

I just walk.

Back toward the trail, toward the gate.

Back toward whatever version of safety I haven’t entirely broken yet.

But then—I hear the engine before I see it.

Low and steady, cutting through the wind.

And then his truck, emerging from the treeline like something inevitable.

Like something sent.

A tight breath locks in my throat before I can stop it.

He’s coming fast, but not wild. Controlled. Cal. Every movement is measured, precise. But his jaw is tight. His eyes locked on me like I’ve just undone him.

I go still.

The wind brushes past my face. The sea murmurs somewhere beyond the grass.

And I brace.

Because I broke the rule.

Because I stepped into something I wasn’t meant to.

Because even though I did it to help, even though I was careful—I know him.

I know what fear does to a man like him.

I’ve seen it in his eyes, that flicker of panic he tries to bury with calm.

I remember the way his jaw tightened the first time I mentioned the car.

How he turned it into silence, into action.

How fear doesn’t freeze him—it sharpens him.

How it coils around his ribs and tries to harden him.

And I’m scared I might’ve been the one to do that.

The truck door slams.

He’s out.

Striding across the field.

Closing the space between us like the Earth’s too small to keep us apart.

“I just—” I try, voice already cracking.

But I don’t get to finish.

Because suddenly—I’m in his arms.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t hesitate.

Just wraps me up. One arm tight around my back, the other sealing around my shoulders, tugging me flush to his chest. He smells like wind and cotton and something steadier than all of it—something that tells my body we’re okay now.

The warmth of him bleeds into me, quiet and sure, and I let it. I let it hold me together.

One arm around my back, the other around my shoulders, tugging me into his chest like he can’t stand to leave even an inch of me untouched.

The air goes out of me all at once.

I fold into him.

Like I was always meant to fit there.

Like this was the only ending possible.

His hand slides up, warm and firm, to cradle the back of my head. And I feel it—the tension in him. The way he’s holding me not just close, but together. Like maybe he’d fall apart without me.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper into the thick cotton of his shirt. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought it was the only chance, and I—I had the tracker, I was careful—”

His voice cuts through the air low and rough.

“You scared me, little one,” he says, and something inside me catches. He doesn’t say things like that—not often. Hearing it from him, hearing the fear instead of anger, lands low in my chest. Like an ache and a balm all at once. "More than I’ve been scared in a long time.”

Not angry.

Not even disappointed.

Just raw.

Honest.

I nod, because I don’t know what else to do. I want to disappear into him.

“I didn’t mean to,” I say again.

His lips press into my hair. A slow, quiet kiss that makes my knees weaken.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I know, baby. You did well. I saw what you did.”

Something in me stutters.

“I’m proud of you.”

My eyes sting.

“But don’t ever do it alone again.”

“I won’t,” I promise.

And I mean it.

Because I can’t do this alone.

Not anymore.

Not when I have this—his arms around me, his voice steady in my ear, his heart beating like it’s synced to mine.

I breathe him in.

And for the first time since I saw that car, I don’t feel brave.

I just feel safe.

We stay like that for a long moment, wrapped up in each other, his arms around me like a shield.

My cheek pressed against the place where his heart beats, slow and steady now—but I can feel the echo of what it was. Of how fast it must’ve raced when he saw me walk toward that man.

I don’t want to move.

Not even a little.

But the wind shifts. Cleo barks softly from somewhere behind us. And Cal… he exhales.

Not annoyed.

Not impatient.

He eases back a little.

Just enough to look down at me, and his hand finds mine.

And as he laces our fingers together—warm, steady—I find the courage to ask.

Quiet. Afraid of the answer.

“…Are you mad?”

His eyes soften the second the words leave my lips.

“No, baby.”

He says it so gently I almost don’t believe him.

“But you were—” I start, then stop. Because I don’t know the word. I just felt it.

He nods once. Just enough.

“I was scared,” he says. “Out of my mind. But not angry.”

My chest shakes.

He squeezes my hand.

“You followed your gut. You were brave. Smarter than he gave you credit for.”

I swallow hard. “But I broke the rule.”

“You did,” he agrees, still calm. “And we’ll talk about that. Later.”

My heart skips.

But his thumb brushes over mine.

“For now? I’m just getting you out of here.”

I nod.

And when he turns toward the truck, still holding my hand, he doesn’t let go. Not even to open the door.

He does that one-handed.

Keeps me close.

Always.

When I climb in, he helps me tuck my legs up. Makes sure the seatbelt lies flat across my lap. Doesn’t say a word about the way I immediately lean into his side the second he settles behind the wheel.

Just lets me rest there.

His hand stays on my thigh as we pull away from the field. Not possessive.

Just present.

And even with everything that just happened, even with everything still ahead—I close my eyes.

We don’t go straight home.

The gravel fades beneath the tires, turns to road again. The ocean disappears behind the hills.

And then, quietly, Cal signals left.

He pulls into a small trailhead lot. Empty but open. No trees are crowding in. Nothing to hide behind. Just a stretch of asphalt tucked up against the edge of a wide clearing, meant for hikers this time of year.

He puts the truck in park, but doesn’t cut the engine, and his hand stays on my leg.

He doesn’t look at me right away.

Just sits there, steady and thoughtful, like he’s trying to decide where to begin.

Then—

“You put a tracker on the car.”

Not a question.

Still, I nod. “Yeah.”

He looks at me now.

Really looks.

I can’t read his face. Not fully. But I don’t see anger there. Just… something else. Something sharp, but quiet.

“I have it pulled up,” I say, reaching into my pocket. “The app. It’s not an AirTag—those send alerts. This one doesn’t. I tested it when I first got it, just in case.”

He watches me power on the screen.

Sees the dot.

The blinking, undeniable signal.

Still moving.

Still traceable.

“Not an AirTag,” he echoes, low and impressed.

He leans closer. Studies the screen for a breath or two. Then—

“My smart girl.”

My chest warms instantly, a soft thrum spreading through me. There’s a quiet bloom low in my belly. It’s not the first time he’s said it. But this time feels different. Like it carries weight. Like it’s not just praise; it’s a kind of claim.

I smile, a little shy. “You’re not mad?”

His gaze flicks to mine.

“No,” he says simply. “Not mad. Not when you did this.”

He gestures toward the screen. Toward the signal we now have. The trail.

“Proud of you, little one.”

I swallow.

Hard.

Because that pride—it’s not just approval. It’s acceptance. Like I’ve earned something I didn’t even know I was trying to.

He sits back.

Still watching the screen, still holding my leg, and I know it then.

He’s already planning what comes next. He leans in again, studying the dot on the map.

“Can I see how the app works?” he asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” I nod, already unlocking the settings. “I can download it on your phone too, if you want. I’ll just log in with my details.”

He hands his phone over without a word.

No passcode, no hesitation.

I navigate the app store with practiced fingers, type in the name, and tap download.

The warmth of his trust isn’t lost on me.

Once it’s open, I enter my login—thumbs hovering for a second before I press sign in.

“There,” I murmur, handing it back. “You’ll get the same updates I do now.”