Page 26

Cal’s gaze is fixed on the screen. On that blinking dot, still moving through the backroads a few towns over.

Quiet. Focused.

Then his eyes lift to mine.

And something gentler settles in them.

“Why’d you even have one of these?” he asks softly. Not suspicious. Just… curious. Like the answer might matter more than I think.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. Glance down at my lap.

“I bought them when I first got the Surron,” I say, a little bashfully. “Two for one deal. Just in case it was stolen or I had to leave it somewhere weird. I put one under the seat.”

“And the second?”

I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “I didn’t know. I just… kept it. Synced and ready. Figured it might come in handy someday.”

His fingers tighten just slightly on my leg.

“You took it with you today.”

I nod, my voice quieter now. “Felt like I should.”

He’s still watching me.

And then, just barely, his mouth curves.

“You’re something else, you know that?”

My cheeks warm and my pulse skips. “I just wanted to be useful.”

“You are,” he says. Firm. No room for argument. “In ways you don’t even see yet.”

And then softer again, almost to himself:

“My smart girl.”

I look out the window, heart thudding louder than I want it to.

And when he puts the truck in drive again, we don’t speak for a while.

We just ride.

Together.

And now—he’s holding part of what I found.

And I’m holding part of what he’ll do with it.

He pulls up outside my parents’ house slowly.

No rush, no sharp movements.

Just steady hands on the wheel and that same tension across his shoulders I’ve seen before—right before something breaks open.

I don’t want to get out.

Not because I don’t understand.

But because every part of me is already missing the warmth of his hand on my leg.

The spot where it rested feels cold now, like something vital was taken away.

There's a soft ache blooming there, not painful—just hollow. Like the ghost of something good still clinging to my skin. The way his voice makes the air easier to breathe. The way his cabin felt like the first place I didn’t have to shrink.

He doesn’t turn off the engine.

Doesn’t reach for the door handle.

Just sits there, watching the house like it’s a threat he can’t quite place.

Then he turns to me.

And I know he sees it.

The quiet sag in my shoulders. The soft dread in my posture. The way I’m already pulling back into myself.

“I hate leaving you here,” he says quietly.

And the way he says it?

It isn’t performative. It isn’t dramatic.

It’s true.

“I’ve got things I need to do,” he continues, voice low. “And I need you somewhere safe while I do them.”

I nod. I know.

Still—it hurts.

But then he pauses.

And asks, carefully—

“Is that okay with you, little one?”

His voice is quiet but firm, threaded with that unshakable steadiness I’ve come to crave.

He’s angled slightly toward me now, one elbow on the console, his posture unhurried—like he’s giving me space to choose, but also bracing to carry whatever I can’t.

There’s something in his eyes when he asks it—something soft but anchored, like he’s promising me a say even when the world never has.

My chest pulls tight. A small exhale escapes before I even answer. Because no one asks me that. Not when it counts. Not when it’s about where I go or how I feel or what I need.

I blink.

Because no one ever asks me that. Not when it matters. Not when it’s about where I go or how I feel or what I need.

I nod slowly. “Yeah. I get it.”

His hand finds mine again, fingers curling around mine like he’s anchoring us both.

“I won’t be gone long,” he murmurs. “A few hours at most. Just gathering intel. Nothing dangerous yet.”

That yet sits heavy in the air.

I glance down at our joined hands.

Then, almost too quiet to hear—

“Will you check in with me?”

He doesn’t move for a second.

Then his whole face softens.

His thumb traces over my knuckles.

And his voice, when it comes, is quieter than I’ve ever heard it.

“Yeah, baby. I’ll check in.”

I glance up at him.

“Not because I’m worried you won’t do what you need to,” I whisper. “I just… I need to know you’re okay.”

His jaw works like he’s trying to hold something in.

Then he leans across the console.

Lifts my hand.

And kisses the back of it, slow and reverent.

“I’ve got no business falling for someone like you,” he says, voice low, posture still but taut like he’s holding something back. His eyes are on our hands, but then they flick up to my face, searching—like he’s scared to say it but more scared not to.

And I feel it, a flutter and an ache all at once. My breath stills, chest rising too slow, like his words knocked something loose inside me.

“But I am.”

My throat tightens.

He kisses my hand again.

Then opens his door and comes around to mine, helping me down like I’m something breakable, his hand solid and warm over mine

But I don’t let go right away.

I’m about to step back, to take the few final steps toward the door—when his fingers tighten around mine.

“Hey.”

I look up.

And something in his gaze has changed.

It’s darker now.

Not angry.

Not afraid.

Just… full.

Full of everything he hasn’t said. Everything he’s feeling. Everything he’s trying to hold in.

He tugs my hand gently.

Just enough to bring me a step closer.

And then he leans in.

One hand slides to my jaw, rough palm cupping my cheek, thumb grazing the corner of my mouth.

And he kisses me.

Not hesitant.

Not gentle.

Hungry.

Like he’s been waiting all day. Like keeping distance all morning was a kindness he’s no longer willing to give.

And for a second, I forget how to breathe.

There’s nothing careful in it—just claim.

Like he’s marking me with it. Like the taste of him, the weight of his palm at my jaw, is something he wants me to carry with me until he can give me more.

And I do. I carry it. I lean into it. Because in his mouth, I feel steadied. In his hands, I feel like I belong.

His mouth is warm and sure, parted just enough to pull me in deeper, and I feel it in every inch of me—how much he’s holding back. How much he wants to give.

I rise onto my toes without thinking.

My hand curls into the fabric at his chest, clutching like I need something to hold onto or I’ll disappear.

When he finally pulls back—slowly, like he hates to—his breath is uneven. His forehead rests against mine.

“I had to do that before you went in,” he murmurs.

My fingers are still trembling where they press into his ribs.

“Why?” I whisper.

He lifts his head just enough to look me in the eyes.

Because he wants me to know.

“To remind you that someone wants you,” he says, low and steady. “That you’re mine.”

A slow, sharp sting rises behind my eyes, and suddenly I can't even form words to respond. It’s not just what he says—it’s how he says it. Like he means it. Like he’s daring me to believe it, even when everything in me still flinches at the idea. “Just as you are.”

The wind moves through my hair.

But all I feel is him.

Still standing close.

Still watching me like I matter.

And somehow… I believe it.

Even when I turn toward the door.

Even when I step away.

Even when the world inside that house tries to tell me otherwise.

I believe him.

I walk the last few steps alone.

The gravel crunches beneath my boots, the wind tugging at the edge of my cardigan. The sun is warm against the back of my neck—but already, the air feels different.

Like the quiet here presses.

Not comforts.

I reach the front step and pause.

Glance back.

Cal hasn’t moved.

He’s still standing by the truck, one hand on the door, the other curled loosely at his side. Watching me like he doesn’t want to let me go. Like a man who’s already turning his body back toward the dark—but not before making sure I get to walk into the light.

I lift my hand.

He lifts his in return.

No words.

Just that.

I open the door, step inside, and it’s immediate. The shift. The heaviness.

Like the air in here doesn’t belong in my lungs anymore.

The TV blares from the living room. My father’s voice cuts through it—sharp, annoyed, barking something at my mother about bills. I hear a cupboard slam in the kitchen. A drawer pulled too hard.

Luca brushes past my leg with a low whine. Cleo darts under the table.

I stand still in the entryway.

Still wearing his kiss.

It lingers like warmth against my mouth, like the hum of his voice pressed low in my chest. I can feel it every time I breathe.

And I'm still holding his voice in my chest.

I tuck my phone into my pocket. Grip it tight like a lifeline.

And I think—just a few hours.

I can make it a few hours.

Because I know he’ll come back.

He said he would.

And this time?

I believe him.