Page 46

“But because I trust myself to keep you safe. And I can’t do that if I don’t know where you are.”

My fingers curl slightly against his chest.

He doesn’t press.

Just continues, soft and sure.

“Even if it’s just down the trail. Or to the shed. Even if it feels small. I want to know.”

I nod.

Small.

“I can do that,” I whisper.

His mouth brushes my temple.

“I know you can.”

There’s a pause. Not heavy, just waiting. Letting me breathe for a moment.

“There’s another one,” he says. “Every night, before bed… we check in.”

I lift my head a little, brows pinched. “Check in?”

He tucks my hair behind my ear, thumb lingering at my jaw.

“Yes. Talk. Not just what you did that day.”

He tilts my chin so gently I almost don’t feel it.

“But how you feel. What’s sitting heavy in you. What you’re carrying.”

And god, I don’t know what to do with that. Not because I don’t want to tell him, but because I don’t know where I’d even start.

How do you check in with someone when your feelings don’t come in neat sentences? When your chest holds a whole weather system and you’ve spent your whole life learning how to make it look like sunshine?

I swallow hard.

The words won’t come. Not yet.

So I nod. Because that’s safer, easier. Because maybe if I nod enough, he won’t ask for more.

But of course—he sees it. He always sees it.

His thumb stays at my jaw. Gentle. Unmoving.

“You don’t have to say it all, not all at once,” he says softly, his thumb still resting at my jaw while his other hand draws slow, grounding circles along my back. His body stays still, open—like he’s making room not just beside him, but inside him too. “You just have to let me make space for it.”

Something in me buckles at that.

Because space?

Real space?

To be messy and quiet and afraid, all at once?

No one’s ever handed me that before. Not without strings, or the promise being pulled back the second I need too much.

But Cal’s voice doesn’t pull away. It wraps around me.

“You don’t have to perform for me, little one. Not brave. Not cheerful. Not fine.”

My vision goes blurry.

“You just have to be honest. And I’ll hold whatever you give me.”

My breath shakes. He feels it—of course he does.

His hand moves up, cups the back of my head. Pulls me a little closer.

“This one might be the hardest,” he murmurs, his thumb sweeping absently along the base of my skull, voice almost too gentle to hold the weight of what he’s saying. “I know that.”

I nod again, small, my fingers tracing circles into the firmness of his chest.

Because it is hard.

Letting someone in like that. Letting someone see the ache before I’ve even named it.

“I see how quiet you get,” he says. “How small you make yourself when you think you’re too much.”

I blink hard. My throat is tight. My mouth too full of everything I don’t say.

“I see it,” he says again, firmer this time. “And I don’t want you folding in on yourself anymore.”

He pulls back just enough to look at me.

Not to watch me.

To see me.

“I want you to come to me when it’s too heavy. When your thoughts are loud. When you’re hurting.”

His hand moves over my chest, palm flat. Grounded.

“Here. Especially here.”

I close my eyes. A tear slips free before I can stop it.

His thumb is there, like always, to brush it away.

“We’ll make it a routine,” he says gently. “Something simple. Every night before bed, you check in with me.”

He kisses my hair.

“I’ll ask. You don’t have to bring it up alone.”

A pause. And then, quieter, “I’ll always ask.”

And for the first time in my life, I believe someone will.

His thumb still rests beneath my eye, brushing away what’s left of that tear.

I feel the weight of his promise settle into my chest—warm and heavy and real. I press closer for a moment. Let myself feel all of it.

“I want to check in too,” I whisper it out, but it’s loud enough, sure enough, for him to hear.

He stills just slightly. Not in surprise. In attention. His hand on my back stays firm.

“I mean with you,” I whisper. “I want to… I want to know how you are.”

His breath catches so faintly I almost miss it.

“I know you won’t always tell me everything,” I say. “I know some things might stay locked away.”

I lift my head just enough to look at him. To really look.

“But I don’t want you to carry it all alone.”

His eyes go dark. Not cold.

Just deep. Storm-touched.

“I don’t want to just be something you protect,” I add, my voice barely more than a whisper. “I want to be someone who’s there. Even if I can’t help the way you do.”

His grip on my waist tightens, like my words hit something tender in him. Like they reach a place he hadn’t let anyone touch in a long time.

"Even if it’s just holding the quiet with you.”

When he speaks, it’s a whisper torn right from his chest.

“You already are.”

He presses his forehead to mine.

“You already hold more of me than I ever meant to give,” he murmurs.

Something aches in my chest at the way he says it. Like it slipped out. Like it matters more than he meant it to.

So I lift my hand, thread it softly behind his neck.

And I kiss him.

Not his mouth—not yet. First, the line of his jaw. Then the hollow of his cheek. Then, when his breath catches just enough for me to feel it—

Then I press my lips to his.

Soft.

Steady.

Certain.

And when I pull back, his eyes are still closed.

So I whisper it.

“Keep letting me.”

The words leave my mouth like a prayer and a plea in one. My chest pulls tight, but not in fear. Something like hope unfurling, tentative and real. Like this might be what it feels like to be allowed to stay.

His eyes open then. And God—

The look he gives me.

Wrecked. Silent. Reverent.

Like I just handed him something he forgot he was allowed to want.

His hand slides up my back. Presses me in close. Like he’s answering without needing to say a word.

But he does say something.

Low.

Rough.

“Always.”

He doesn’t speak right away.

Just holds me.

His hand on my back, his cheek resting briefly against the top of my head like he needs a breath.

Like that one word— always —wasn’t just a promise, but a release.

When his voice comes again, it’s a little lower. Cal when he’s sure. Cal when he’s looking past me, beyond me, and building walls with his hands that only I’ll ever be on the inside of.

“If you see another strange car…” The words settle between us. Not sharp. But precise. “You let me know immediately. You don’t approach. You don’t wave it off. You don’t make yourself small around it.”

I nod slowly, my hand finding the fabric of his shirt.

He cups the side of my face, turning me gently until I’m looking at him.

“I’m not expecting to see that one again,” he says. “But if you see anything that doesn’t belong, any person who feels out of place—even if it’s just a gut feeling…”

His gaze hardens.

“You tell me.”

I don’t flinch.

Not because it isn’t firm. It is.

But it’s the kind of firmness that wraps around you like armor. My breath loosens. My shoulders ease the smallest amount. It doesn’t scare me... it steadies me. Like maybe this time, strength doesn’t mean danger.

The kind that says, you’re not facing it alone anymore.

“Okay,” I whisper.

He nods once. Then presses a kiss to the center of my forehead.

“Good girl.”

His lips press to my forehead, and I feel small in the safest way—like I could stay right here, wrapped in his praise, and never need anything else.

I swear, I feel like I’m being stitched back together. One promise at a time.

He leans back, just enough to see me again.

But his arms don’t loosen.

If anything, they hold me tighter.

“There’s one more,” he says quietly.

His eyes search mine.

Not for resistance.

Just for readiness.

“For me to keep you safe the way I need to…”

My pulse picks up. Not in fear—but in something else.

Like the edge of a turning point. I feel the press of his hand more keenly, the strength in his arms, and a steadiness begins to bloom in my chest even as a deeper part of me wants to flinch.

But I don’t. I stay. I listen. “When I give you a rule, Emmy… I need you to listen.”

I pause, turning from nuzzling into his chest to look up at him again.

Not because I’m afraid, but because I know what he means. He doesn’t rush to fill the silence. Just holds me in it.

“I won’t ever ask something of you without reason. I won’t ever try to control you.”

His thumb brushes beneath my jaw, lifting my gaze to meet his.

“But if I say stay back, I need to know you’ll trust me enough to stay.”

I nod slowly. My eyes sting again, but I don’t look away. I know this is a reference to what’s already transpired. Back in the field, with the scary man in the black car, and planting the tracker.

“Even if I don’t understand?”

His breath halts. Just a little. But when he speaks, it’s firm. Unyielding.

“If you don’t understand, you ask me later.”

His eyes never stray from mine, and I don’t try to look away. Don’t want to.

“But in the moment, I need you to trust that I’m not just protecting your body—I’m protecting everything you are.”

I press closer.

“And if I ever ask something you can’t give,” he adds, softer now, “you tell me. Use your word. I’ll listen.”

“Red,” I whisper.

“Good girl.”

The words fall through me like heat. Like shelter.

He pulls me in.

Breathes me in.

And when he speaks next, it’s almost to himself. “I won’t lose you.”

The room is quiet, but the kind of quiet that leaves you alone with your thoughts.

The kind that holds you, cradles you, lets you rest in it.

Cal doesn’t speak again.

Doesn’t move.

His hand stays at the back of my head, fingers sliding slowly through my hair like he’s memorizing the weight of me there.

Like he doesn’t want the moment to end either.

And neither do I.

I tuck myself tighter against his chest. Feel the steady rise and fall of his breath. The warmth of his body, still wrapped around mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The rules don’t feel heavy.

They don’t even feel like rules.

They feel like… roots.

Like something I can wrap around myself when the wind comes.

And God, the wind has come for so long.

But right now—

Here, in his lap, with his arms around me, and that low vow still echoing in my chest—

It’s quiet.

Safe.

Still.

The quiet settles deeper.

Cal’s hand keeps moving in my hair, slow and sure. His breath is soft at the crown of my head.

And then—gentle, almost a murmur:

“How’s your heart, little one?”

His voice is barely above a murmur, soft and low like he's speaking to something fragile in the dark. His eyes search mine as he asks it—steady, full of warmth, like the answer matters more than anything else in the world.

The question catches me somewhere I didn’t expect it to.

I blink, swallow, and shift slightly, enough to see his face.

He’s watching me the way he always does. Like there’s nothing else in the room but me.

“Okay,” I say, voice small. “I think.”

He waits. Doesn’t press.

Just brushes a knuckle down the side of my face.

“You feel alright about the rules?”

I nod.

Then hesitate.

“I think I feel more… held than anything.”

His eyes darken, but not with anger. Not even with heat.

With something deeper.

“You are,” he says.

I believe him.

Then, quieter:

“Did I get it right?”

The question comes out before I can stop it.

His expression doesn’t flicker.

“Sweet girl,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from my face, “there’s no right for this. There’s just us. And I’ll keep adjusting every inch of it if it means you feel safer. Stronger. Softer.”

The tears rise again. But not from sadness.

From something like… being seen.

Really seen.

For maybe the first time.

His words settle into me like warmth beneath my skin.

There’s no right.

Just us.

I swallow thickly, not because I’m afraid—but because I don’t know what to do with that kind of tenderness. With someone who adjusts to me instead of making me contort myself to fit them.

I think maybe I never have.

I shift again, just slightly. Enough that my knees tuck higher beneath the quilt. Enough that my cheek finds the curve where his neck meets his shoulder.

He holds me like it’s nothing.

Like it’s everything.

His thumb brushes beneath my eye again, even though I’m not crying. Just watching me. Always watching.

“Feels like a lot?” he murmurs.

I nod against his chest. “But not bad.”

My fingers curl gently in his shirt, grounding myself in the warmth of him. I shift closer, just a fraction, letting the weight of his arms and the steady rhythm of his breath wrap around me. It still feels big—but no longer like something I have to bear alone.

He kisses the crown of my head.

“That’s allowed, you know,” he says quietly. “For it to feel big. Even if it’s good.”

I exhale shakily. “I don’t think anyone’s ever told me that before.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “But I’m telling you now.”

His hand moves to my back again. Gentle, slow strokes. Grounding.

“You don’t have to brace in my arms, Emmy.” His voice drops even lower, warm as flannel and just as soft. He rocks me gently as he says it, like he’s cradling the words around me, not just offering comfort—but anchoring me in it.

The tears come then. Quietly. Not out of fear or even sadness. Just… relief.

Because I have been bracing.

For years.

For impact. For disappointment. For the sound of love being withdrawn like breath from a room.

But Cal doesn’t leave.

He doesn’t flinch.

He just holds me tighter. I feel the rise of his chest beneath my cheek, steady and warm, his scent all earth and pine and home. It settles over me like dusk. Soft, certain, and unshakable.