Page 30

His voice sinks into me, low and certain, and something in my chest softens. The endearment brushes over me like a balm, tugging at something deep and fragile inside. My breath stutters, just once, as if my body recognizes the safety in his voice before my mind does.

I blink.

“I can—”

“Not tonight,” he says gently. “Let me.”

I do.

He feeds me slowly.

One bite at a time.

Nothing rushed. Nothing patronizing. Just care—surgical and unflinching.

Like this is a mission and I’m the whole objective.

Like making sure I eat is just as important as everything else he plans to do to keep me safe.

Like feeding me is a kind of promise. One I’ve never been given before—not like this.

Not without strings or silence or shame.

Just care, given freely. And it undoes something in me I didn’t know I’d braced against.

“Rough day, wasn’t it?” he says, voice low, like he’s talking to something small and sacred.

I nod, a little dazed.

He brushes a crumb from my lip with his thumb. The touch is so soft it makes my breath catch. I don’t flinch—but I freeze, just for a second, because it’s been so long since someone touched me with that kind of quiet care. Something in my chest twists. Not in fear, but in want. In disbelief.

“I’ve got you now.”

My eyes sting again.

But I don’t cry.

I just open my mouth for the next bite.

And let myself believe him.

When I finish the last bite, Cal sets the plate aside.

Doesn’t move fast.

Doesn’t rush me.

Just watches for a beat, eyes steady, hand still resting on my thigh.

Then, softly—

“Do the dogs need anything before bed?”

I blink.

My thoughts are slower now, quieter. I start to rise.

And his hand comes down, gentle but unmovable.

He doesn’t raise his voice.

Doesn’t scold.

Just tilts his head, that steady gaze fixed on mine.

“Use your words, little one.”

My breath catches at the endearment, a hush moving through me like his words just anchored something deep. Not pressure—presence. His quiet command doesn’t scare me. It settles me. Like I’m being asked to show up, not perform.

I swallow. “I—I think they need to go out. Maybe a little food. I can—”

He gently cuts in, voice low and firm. “No, baby. You’ve done enough tonight. Let me.”

I freeze.

Not because I’m afraid.

Because I hear what he’s saying underneath.

Let me take care of it. Let me take care of you.

So I whisper, half gratitude, still half afraid it's all too much, “Yes, please.”

He nods.

“Good girl.”

His voice is low but sure, threading through me like warmth with an edge.

Sharp enough to cut through doubt. My pulse trips, something low and tight pulling beneath my ribs—too big to name, but impossible to ignore.

Not just obedience. Not just praise. When I look up, his eyes are steady, jaw firm with something like pride. It’s belonging. It’s being claimed.

And then he’s up.

No noise.

No complaint.

He moves around the cabin with ease, filling the dogs’ water, scooping food, and sliding the back door open to let them out into the yard.

They go without fuss.

No barking.

No pulling.

Like they understand the quiet here. Like they feel it.

He waits until they’re done.

Brings them back in.

Closes the door.

Locks it.

Then returns to me.

His hand reaches for mine.

“Bed,” he murmurs.

I nod, too tired to speak.

But when I stand, he’s already moving. Takes the blanket from my shoulders, then wraps his arm around me.

And leads me down the hall like I’m something precious.

And maybe... maybe I am.

The hallway is dim. Soft light glows from the sconces he must’ve turned on before leaving. Everything here feels intentional. Quiet. Ready.

When we reach the bathroom, he pushes the door open gently and nudges the light switch with his shoulder.

Warm light spills into the small space.

He steps in first.

I stay near the threshold.

Not out of fear.

Just… awe.

Like I might wake up.

Like this kindness might vanish if I breathe too loudly.

He turns, sees me still lingering in the doorway.

Doesn’t coax.

Doesn’t press.

Just says, soft as a promise—

“Come here.”

His voice is low, warm, a quiet command that doesn’t push—it pulls. I step into the bathroom, heart stuttering. It’s not just obedience. It’s gravity.

I step into the bathroom.

It’s small but cozy. Clean. A warm wood cabinet. Simple stone countertop. A mirror that doesn’t make me want to shrink.

He opens the drawer.

Pulls out a brand-new toothbrush, still in the packaging.

Holds it out.

“You can keep it here, if you want.”

I nod.

But my eyes sting.

He opens the cabinet under the sink.

“Extra towels are down here. Floss is in that drawer. Hairbrush too, if you didn’t pack one.”

He moves like a man who’s already imagined this.

Already planned.

Not just for the moment.

But for me.

I can’t speak.

I just stand there.

Watching him turn down the toothpaste cap.

Set everything in place.

Like I belong.

Like I’m staying.

He straightens and looks at me.

Sees the way I’m holding myself still. Quiet. Like I don’t know what to do with the kindness.

His voice drops lower.

“Want me to stay while you brush?”

I nod again.

He leans back against the counter.

Arms crossed.

Watching me with that steady gaze.

Not judging.

Just being here.

And I pick up the brush.

Press the paste onto it with hands that barely shake.

And start to believe—

This is real.

The water still clings to my face.

My toothbrush is back in the ceramic cup. My hands are clean. The mirror fogged just slightly from the warmth of the room.

And when I turn around—

He’s still there.

Leaning against the counter.

Arms loose at his sides.

Not rushing.

Not demanding.

Just waiting.

And something in me gives out.

Not from weakness.

From trust.

From finally knowing I don’t have to hold all of it on my own anymore.

I walk straight into him.

Don’t say a word.

Just bury my face in his chest and let my arms circle his waist.

His shirt is soft beneath my cheek. His scent—warm, steady, unmistakably him—fills my lungs like breath itself.

And his arms come around me instantly.

No hesitation.

One wraps around my shoulders.

The other presses firm and low against my back.

Like he’s sealing something in.

Or maybe holding something safe. His chest is broad and solid beneath me, his breath slow and deep. I feel small here—folded in, surrounded, like I’ve been fitted back into the space I never knew I’d been missing. Safe doesn’t even cover it. It feels like being kept.

I sink into him.

Completely.

Let the weight melt into the quiet power of his hold.

And he doesn’t let me go.

Not for a long, long moment.

Then I feel it—

The subtle shift.

His breath low at my temple.

And then—his hands moving lower.

One beneath my thighs.

The other under my knees.

He lifts me like I’m nothing more than air and intention.

My legs wrap around his waist without thinking.

And still—his hold is solid.

Unshakable.

Like carrying me is the most natural thing in the world.

Like it’s what he was built to do.

He walks slow down the hall.

The house quiet around us.

And every step says the same thing:

You’re safe. You’re wanted. You’re home.

The bedroom is quiet when he carries me in.

Lit only by the faint glow of the firelight spilling in from the hallway.

He moves without sound.

Without hesitation.

Straight to the bed.

The quilt is already turned down.

Like he knew I’d be here tonight.

Like maybe he hoped.

He lowers me onto the mattress slow and sure, like he’s laying something fragile down. Like I might shatter if he lets go too fast.

And for a second—

Just a second—

He starts to straighten.

To pull back.

And I feel it hit me like a shiver.

The possibility.

The fear.

And I hear myself ask, voice so small it almost doesn’t make it past my lips—cracking halfway out like it’s afraid to exist—

“Are you leaving?”

He freezes.

Not completely.

Just enough for me to feel it in my chest.

Then his head lowers.

Eyes locked on mine.

“No,” he says. Quiet. Absolute. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Still, I whisper—

“But last night…”

He shakes his head once. Sure. Slow.

“You’re not sleeping alone tonight, sweet girl.”

My breath loosens, the tight coil in my chest unwinding just a little more. It feels like being claimed and comforted all at once, like a tether tying me to something steady and real.

His hand finds mine beneath the blanket.

“Not anymore.”

And he doesn’t just sit beside me.

He climbs in.

Fully clothed.

No hesitation.

Just presence.

He pulls me into his chest.

Wraps me in his arms like the safest place in the world.

And when I finally let my eyes close…

It’s the first time in years I've fallen asleep without fear.

Because he’s here.

And he’s not leaving.

The room is quiet.

Dark, save for the faint red glow of the fire still flickering behind the cracked bedroom door.

Cal’s chest rises slow and deep beneath me, his heartbeat steady where my cheek rests against him.

It’s warm here.

Safe in a way I don’t think I’ve ever really known.

And I sleep.

Really sleep.

Until... I don’t.

It comes out of nowhere.

A jolt.

Like my body remembered something before my mind could.

I lurch forward in the bed, breath catching, heart racing.

The blanket slips down my arms.

My hands scramble through the sheets.

But I don’t fall.

Because he’s already there.

His arms wrap around me before I can even register the sound of my panic.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice low, rough with sleep but still sure. “You’re okay, little one. You’re right here.”

His hand finds the back of my head.

Gently guides me back to him.

I collapse into him like a wave folding into shore.

My face presses into his chest.

His arms tighten.

And he doesn’t ask what it was.

Doesn’t ask why.

Just holds.

And I let him.

Let my breath catch and shudder against his shirt.

Let the sound of his heartbeat talk me down.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

He stills.

Just slightly.

But enough for me to feel it.

“I’m sorry I have to be here,” I add, voice barely there. “I’m sorry I—interrupted you. When you were working earlier. With that call. I didn’t mean to ruin anything.”

It takes him a moment.

Just one.

But I feel it—his whole body going quiet around me.

Then he speaks.

Soft.

But broken.

“Don’t do that,” he says.

“Cal—”

His voice is firmer now. Not sharp. Just honest.

“Don’t apologize for needing care. For being here. For being mine.”

The word mine sends a tremor through me—equal parts ache and wonder. Like I’ve stepped into something warm and unfamiliar, something I want to believe in but don’t quite know how to hold. It wraps around all the places that used to hurt.

The word hangs in the air between us.

He lowers his head.

His mouth finds my hair.

“You didn’t ruin a goddamn thing, baby,” he whispers. “You survived something no one ever should’ve had to.”

He pulls me closer.

I didn’t know I could be pulled closer.

But he does it.

And I fit.

“You were brave,” he murmurs. “You were smart. You did everything right. And you still think you have to apologize for being a person with a heart that hurts.”

My eyes sting again.

He doesn’t let go.

“You don’t owe me an apology, little one,” he says. “You never did. What you deserve is peace.”

And then—

Softer.

Wrecked.

“I want to give you that.”

His hands are warm on my back, one stroking slowly between my shoulders like he’s memorizing the shape of my pain.

The other stays low, solid at my waist, keeping me here. Grounded. Held.

His voice is barely above a breath now.

“There’s nothing more important than you.”

For a second, I can’t breathe past the ache. It’s not pain—it’s something softer. Like being seen and not having to hide from it.

It hits harder than I expect.

I don’t even mean to ask.

But it slips out, cracked and small and almost not there—

“Do you really want me here?”

I feel him freeze.

Just for a heartbeat.

Then—

He shifts.

One hand comes up to cup the side of my face.

Gentle.

Unmistakable.

And he tilts my chin until I’m looking at him.

His eyes are shadowed in the dark, but I feel them.

And then—

He kisses me.

Not urgent, not rushed. But full. So full.

Like his whole chest is in it. Like he’s answering a question that’s lived in me for years.

When he pulls back, his voice is low. Steady.

“Yes.”

One word.

But it roots down into me like something holy.

I don’t say anything else, just lay my head back on his chest. Let his arms come around me again, let the silence wrap us up.

And finally—finally—I start to believe that maybe I’m not just safe.

Maybe I’m wanted, too.