Page 29

“You ready?” he asks softly.

I nod, but my voice still comes out quiet. “Are you sure?”

His brows draw together just slightly.

“About what?”

“That I should be here.”

The quiet stretches.

Then his hand finds mine again. Lifts it gently.

“Emmy,” he says, like it’s the only answer that matters. “This is your door I’m opening.”

The words wrap around me, warm and anchoring. Something deep in my chest loosens, like I’ve just been claimed in the softest, most undeniable way. Like I’m not just wanted—I’m his. And I’m home.

It feels like the whole world has paused and condensed down into this little bubble, between us. I feel suspended in disbelief, in pure awe, and underlying fear. That he’ll regret this.

He gets out first, comes around to my side, opens it for me. Helps me down like he always does. The dogs jump out beside us, tails wagging, already familiar.

When we step inside, it’s warm. Not just from the fire.

But from the way the space feels lived in. Like he didn’t stop living in it while I was gone—he just left space for me. And something in me aches at the sight of it. Like I’m walking into a place where I’ve always belonged but never dared to imagine I could stay.

There’s a second pair of slippers by the door now. Not just placed there—but waiting. Like he expects me to stay. Like he’s made space for me, and filled it with softness. With permanence.

Then a folded blanket on the couch that wasn’t there yesterday.

My mug on the counter beside the kettle, turned upside down, like it was waiting.

I turn in a slow circle, taking it all in.

“It feels different,” I say.

He steps up behind me.

“Because you’re not visiting this time,” he murmurs.

“You’re home.”

I sit on the couch like my legs can’t hold me anymore. Maybe tonight, they can’t. Not after everything. I glance around, dazedly.

The fire crackles softly in the hearth. Luca sprawls beside the chair. Cleo circles twice and curls up near the hearth.

Cal doesn’t say a word.

Just moves into the kitchen, fills the kettle. Pours it quiet. His presence filling the room without pressing in.

I watch him.

Watch the quiet strength of his back, the way he moves like nothing in the world could rattle him.

And something in me, small and sharp, breaks.

“I can’t believe you heard all of that,” I whisper.

He doesn’t turn around. But I see the way his shoulders still. Not like a flinch—like a fuse catching flame. Quiet. Controlled. Dangerous in a way that doesn’t scare me... but makes my breath catch.

After a second, I realize: he hasn’t let himself think about my father. Not yet.

Because when he does?

He won’t just be calm. He’ll be deadly.

“I didn’t mean for you to,” I add, voice catching. “I—I didn’t mean for anyone to. It’s not usually that bad. Or it is. I don’t know. I just… I’ve lived with it so long, I stopped keeping track.”

The kettle hums.

The silence gets heavier.

I try to fill it.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry you had to hear that. I know it’s awful. You don’t have to—”

“Emmy.” It’s soft. But it stops me.

He turns around.

And his eyes…

God.

They’re steady. Dark. Devastated.

“You think I came for you out of pity?”

I blink, heart stuttering.

“No, I just—”

“You think I held you, and brought you here, and kissed you like that because I felt bad for you?”

Tears sting at the back of my throat.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” I manage.

“You’re not.”

His voice is low. Rough. But sure.

He crosses to me slowly.

Not looming.

Not fast.

Just steady.

Like he knows I’ll hold still.

He kneels in front of the couch.

Takes my hands.

And says—quiet and firm—

“You’re not broken.”

The words sink into me like sunlight into skin after too long in the dark. My mouth trembles.

“You were never too much. You were never hard to love. You were just too soft for a world that didn’t know how to hold you.”

I break.

Not loudly.

Not completely.

Just enough for his thumbs to catch it, brushing away the tears as they fall.

“I’m not here out of obligation, little one,” he adds, softer now. “I’m here because I want to be. Because you belong here.”

He presses my hand to his chest.

“I want you. All of you. Even the parts you think should stay hidden.”

Heat rises behind my eyes, low in my chest. It feels like something breaking open and flooding me all at once. Like I’ve been seen—and chosen anyway.

I close my eyes.

Because for the first time… I believe that might be true.

And it wrecks me.

I shake my head.

His hands are still holding mine, but I can’t look at him. Can’t let myself.

“I mean it,” I whisper. “You don’t have to do this.”

His thumbs pause their gentle swipes on my cheeks.

“I know it’s a lot. I know I’m a lot. I come with all this mess and years of learning how to stay small. I come with dogs who shed and bark and need food I can barely afford and—”

“Emmy.”

His voice changes.

Not louder.

Just lower.

Firm.

I look up.

And he’s there.

Still kneeling.

Still holding my hands.

But the softness in his gaze has shifted, deepened. Like steel wrapped in velvet.

Like something immovable.

“I’m only going to say this once,” he murmurs. “So I want you to listen.”

My heart stutters.

“You’re not a lot. You’re mine.”

The word lands like a bolt in my chest.

“And your dogs?” he adds, eyes narrowing just slightly. “They’re part of the deal. I knew that the second I saw them next to you. So don’t you dare apologize for them.”

I blink fast.

“I didn’t mean to—”

His grip tightens gently.

“You don’t get to apologize for being loved by them. Or by me.”

I breathe, shaky and quiet.

“I just thought…”

He leans in closer.

His voice dips again.

“You thought wrong, little one.”

The world goes still.

He reaches up.

Tucks a piece of hair behind my ear.

And says—

“You’re not trouble. You’re not baggage. You’re mine. And I take care of what’s mine.”

The words are low and warm, curling through my chest like a promise I didn’t know I was waiting for.

My breath shudders out, slow and uneven, like something long-tensed finally lets go inside me.

And the look on his face—steady, fierce, impossibly tender—tells me he means every word.

There’s no doubt in his eyes. Just claim. Just care.

My lungs stutter.

My whole body does.

Because it’s not a threat.

It’s not a performance.

It’s a vow.

And I don’t know how to argue with that.

So I don’t.

I just nod.

And whisper—

“Okay.”

He sees it in my face before I say anything.

The way my breath hitches.

The way I stop trying to explain, to downplay, to protect him from me.

His expression shifts again—softening, but not loosening.

And then—

“Come here, baby,” he says quietly. “You’ve had enough of the world for one night.”

Something soft unfurls inside me. The way he says it—gentle, commanding, like there’s no question I belong with him—wraps around me tighter than any blanket. It doesn’t just sound like comfort. It sounds like shelter.

My throat tightens.

I nod.

And he moves before I can second-guess it.

Rises slowly from where he’d been kneeling and sits on the couch beside me. Then opens his arms—solid, steady—and waits.

I don’t hesitate.

I crawl into his lap like I’ve done it a hundred times. Like I was always meant to.

The blanket pools around us as he shifts me gently, cradling me against his chest, one arm beneath my knees, the other around my back.

Like I’m something precious. Like the world can’t touch me here.

His warmth wraps around me, steady and solid, his scent grounding—cedar, safety, home.

The rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek is slow and sure, like he’s breathing for both of us now.

My face tucks beneath his jaw.

I feel his breath at my hairline.

His lips brush there, soft as a vow.

For a long moment, he just holds me.

Like that’s all he wants.

All he needs.

Then he murmurs, “Have you eaten anything?”

I shake my head against his chest.

He nods, like it doesn’t surprise him.

But his hold tightens a little.

“I’ll get you something,” he says. “Something warm. But I just need to hold you first. Can I do that, baby?”

My voice is barely a whisper.

“Please don’t stop holding me.”

The words slip out before I can think, raw and trembling. Saying them feels like peeling back skin—like exposing a need I’ve tried too hard to bury. But the moment they’re out, something eases. Like naming it makes it real. Like I’ve given him the truth—and he’s not letting go.

I feel his breath stutter.

Just once.

Then—

“I won’t.”

And he doesn’t.

He doesn’t move until he feels me breathe easier.

Not completely relaxed.

But close.

Then, with one last brush of his hand down my back, he murmurs, “Let’s get you fed, little one.”

I nod against him.

But I don’t move.

So he does it for me.

He lifts me carefully—blanket and all—and carries me to the kitchen like I weigh nothing at all. Like I’m made of something softer than bone.

He sets me gently in the chair at the head of the table, tucks the blanket around me again, then presses a kiss to the top of my head like it’s reflex.

I watch as he moves around the kitchen.

Quiet.

Focused.

There’s no noise but the rustle of the cabinet door, the click of the kettle, the soft scrape of a drawer.

It’s not rushed.

It’s intentional.

And when he comes back, it’s with something simple—toast, peanut butter, apple slices arranged in a neat little fan. Nothing complicated. Just warm. Nourishing and gentle. He sets the plate down in front of me, but I don’t reach for it.

I’m too tired.

Too scraped thin.

Too full of that old ache that says, don’t make a mess, don’t ask for more, don’t take up space.

He sees it.

Of course he does.

And something in him shifts again.

Goes quiet.

Sharper.

More precise.

He sits beside me.

Takes the first slice of toast.

And tears it in half.

Then he turns to me, eyes steady.

“Open up, sweet girl.”