Page 28

EMMY

I didn’t mean to answer.

My hands were shaking too hard—I just wanted to silence it.

Just wanted the ringing to stop. But I must’ve hit the wrong side of the screen.

My stomach drops, a cold shock spreading through my limbs like I’ve been plunged into ice.

The phone trembles slightly in my hand, breath snagging high in my chest.

Because the second I shut the bedroom door behind me, I realize the line is open. And that I can still hear the echo of my father’s voice—in Cal’s ear.

God.

I sink onto the edge of the bed, my breath coming too fast.

He heard.

I fumble to end the call, then immediately dial back.

It barely rings once before he picks up.

“Emmy,” he says. Not gentle, not harsh. Just solid.

“I’m okay,” I rush out. “It’s fine. He’s just—he gets like that sometimes, it’s loud, but he doesn’t mean—”

“Don’t,” Cal says. Soft, but firm. It’s the kind of voice that sinks into my skin, grounding me. Like I could root myself in that sound and never move again.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” I whisper.

“I’m coming to get you,” he says. No hesitation.

It feels like my heart stops. Everything stops.

“Cal—wait, please. You don’t have to do that. I don’t want to be a problem. I’ve got the dogs, and it’s late, and I’ll be okay, I always—”

His voice breaks in.

Low.

Wrecked.

“Emmy.”

I go quiet.

“If you don’t say no,” he says slowly, “I’m coming to get you.”

I blink, eyes already stinging.

“I don’t know how to say yes,” I whisper.

It breaks something in me to admit it.

Because I want to. God, I want to. My fingers clench the blanket beside me, knuckles tight. A sharp breath catches in my throat, stuck somewhere between want and fear.

But the words don’t come easily when you’ve spent your whole life swallowing them. When every time you asked for something, it was too much. When the silence became a kind of safety.

And now here he is.

Offering something I never thought I’d be allowed to want.

Me.

My dogs.

My trembling hands and the mess in my chest and the echo of a man still shouting on the other side of the house.

I wait for him to pull away.

To say okay, sweetheart or just hang in there or I understand.

But instead—

He breathes once.

Then says—

“You don’t have to.”

Three words.

But they wrap around something raw and wounded inside me like a bandage made of light.

“You don’t have to,” he says again, quieter this time. “You don’t have to be ready. You don’t have to explain. You don’t have to earn it.”

My hand comes up to cover my mouth, trembling against my lips. It’s cold—colder than I expected—and I press it tighter, as if I can hold the feeling in, keep from shattering with it.

Because I’m crying now.

Not loud.

Not broken.

Just relieved. My chest loosens, the weight pressing down on me easing with every breath. My shoulders drop, and warmth creeps into the spaces that had gone cold.

“You don’t even have to ask me to come,” he adds, steady and sure. “Because if you don’t say no, Emmy—if you don’t tell me to stop—I’m already on my way.”

And something in me, something old and aching, lets go.

“I’m not saying no,” I breathe.

A pause.

Then—

“Good girl.”

And just like that, I’m not in that house anymore.

Not really, not in my heart. Not where it counts.

Because he’s coming. For me.

The line goes quiet.

And I just sit there, phone still in my hand.

Heart shaking somewhere beneath my ribs.

He’s coming. He’s really coming.

And not because I begged. Not because I asked.

Because I didn’t say no.

Because he heard the thing I couldn’t put into words—and came anyway.

I wipe at my face with the sleeve of my sweater, breath catching on a hiccup.

Cleo noses at my ankle. Luca is standing now, ears pricked, watching me like he knows something’s about to change.

And it is.

For the first time… I believe that it is.

I rise from the bed slowly. The motion feels foreign—like I’ve slipped into someone else’s skin. Someone braver. The floor meets my feet, but I’m not flinching this time. I’m choosing to stand. And it feels like something is shifting in me. Quietly. Finally.

My body feels strange—like I’m wearing it differently. Like I’m not bracing against every step.

I move toward the closet, pull my small canvas duffle from the top shelf. It lands with a soft thud on the bed.

I don’t rush, or panic.

This isn’t escape.

This is leaving.

And there’s a difference.

I fold clothes carefully. Warm things. Comfortable things. A couple of favorite sweaters. Socks. Underwear. My notebook.

My toothbrush.

The photo I keep in the back of my journal—Mom and me, from years ago. She’s smiling so hard it looks like it hurts. I tuck it gently between two shirts.

The dogs’ leashes go in next.

Their travel bowls. A bag of kibble from the laundry room.

I almost forget my charger.

Then I almost forget my pillow.

Because for some reason, that matters. Maybe because it’s the one soft thing in this house that’s mine. Something that’s held me on the nights I couldn’t hold myself. Something no one ever took from me—until now, when I’m choosing to give it away.

I glance around once more, like I’m forgetting something.

But I’m not. Because everything that matters?

It’s already waiting for me.

The house creaks behind me. The TV still buzzes through the wall, the sound of a glass clinking too loudly against the counter. My father’s voice is quieter now, but still there. Always there.

I glance at the window, just once. But just in time to see headlights cutting across the trees.

And my breath stills. Not from fear. No, from bone-deep relief.

Because he came.

He always said he would.

And now he’s here.

The duffle’s not heavy. Maybe it should be… but it feels like it holds only what I need. No more. No less.

The dogs are already at the door when I come down the stairs, tails swaying low, like they know not to bark. Like they know this is sacred somehow. Like even they can feel the air shift—something quiet and reverent threading through the dark.

I don’t pause.

Don’t leave a note.

Just ease open the door and step outside.

The wind hits my face first—cool, salt-tinged. The sky overhead is layered in cloud, soft and low, but not storming.

Not tonight.

The porch creaks beneath my feet.

And then I see him.

Cal.

Standing just beyond the steps.

No hesitation.

No hurry.

Just waiting.

The truck is idling behind him, headlights still on, washing the gravel in pale gold. The driver’s door open. The world held between us.

He’s in black again.

Jacket unzipped, hands loose at his sides.

But his eyes—God, his eyes.

Shadowed and fierce, like he hasn’t blinked since I called. Something is shining in them, too—like relief wrapped in ache. Like the sight of me is both a wound and its balm.

Like he’s been holding his breath since I hung up.

I step off the porch.

The bag shifts on my shoulder.

Cleo stays close to my ankle. Luca trots ahead, ears perked, making a low whine in his throat that melts something in me.

Cal doesn’t say a word.

He doesn’t have to. W

hen I reach him, I stop.

Just for for a second, because then—he reaches. One hand on the strap of my bag, easing it off my shoulder without a word. The other brushes my arm, then slides down, catches my hand, warm and steady.

He looks down at me like I’m something holy. Like I’m small and breakable and his. Like he’s not just seeing me—he’s sheltering me, with his eyes alone.

And says, just barely above a whisper—

“You did it.”

My chest breaks open.

He lifts our joined hands. Presses a kiss to my knuckles.

And then, still holding me—

He opens the passenger door.

Guides me up.

And this time?

I don’t look back.

The door shuts with a soft, certain click.

Not loud.

Not final.

Just… done.

I sit there for a second, shivering even though the truck cab is heated, barely breathing.

The seat beneath me still warm from the engine. The scent of him in the cab—cedar, leather, something darker beneath it that I don’t know how to name yet, only that it’s his.

Luca jumps up behind me, tail sweeping across the seat. Cleo curls into my side, pressed close against the door.

Cal opens his door on the other side and climbs in. But before he starts the truck, before he even reaches for the gearshift—he turns to me.

Doesn’t say a word.

Just reaches across and pulls the seatbelt across my chest, clicking it into place with care.

Then his hand lingers. Fingers brush my collarbone, light as breath. The contact steals mine, just for a second—my lungs pausing like my body doesn’t know how to hold the softness. It grounds me more than startles. Like his hand is writing safety into my skin.

Then drift down—slow, deliberate—until his palm comes to rest on my thigh.

“I’ve got you now,” he says softly.

The words drop into me like warmth.

I nod.

I’m not crying anymore. His hands, his voice, steady my shaking too. Until I just am.

And that feels like enough.

He glances at the dogs. Smiles faintly, like they belong to him now, too. Then he shifts into drive. And we pull away.

The house disappears in the mirrors.

But I don’t look back. A breath leaves me—slow and hollow, like I’ve been holding it for years. There’s no pull in my chest. Just quiet. Just lightness. Like something heavy has finally been cut loose.

Because nothing there holds me.

Not anymore.

The road curves ahead, quiet and empty.

And his hand stays right there on my leg.

Warm.

Steady.

Home.

His hand stays on my leg the whole time, thumb brushing slow arcs into the denim of my jeans. Every so often, he glances at me. Not to ask anything. Just… to see me.

And I let him.

The road grows narrower. The trees rise tall around us. And then I see it.

The cabin.

The porch light glows soft through the trees. The same one he left on for me that first night.

Only now?

It doesn’t feel like it’s just for safety.

It feels like a welcome.

The truck rolls to a stop. He cuts the engine.

Lets the silence settle.