Page 49

His arm is still wrapped around my shoulders.

I trace the curve of his jaw with my gaze. The scruff there. The shape of his mouth. The small line between his brows that never seems to fully go away.

And without thinking, without even deciding—

I lean in.

One hand lifts, rests lightly against his chest.

He looks down the second I move, his eyes locking with mine.

“Emmy…”

It’s not a warning.

It’s a breath.

And I kiss him.

Slow. Barely there at first. Just a brush of lips.

But he’s already responding.

His hand moves to my cheek. His thumb slides along my jaw. And when I press in again—more sure this time—his mouth opens to meet mine with a kind of reverence that breaks something wide open in my chest.

He kisses like he holds. With intention. With care.

With everything.

When we part, I feel it everywhere.

In my bones. My belly. The places inside me I thought would stay quiet forever.

I keep my eyes closed for a moment longer, just to hold it.

“You’re really here,” I whisper.

Cal doesn’t answer right away. His breath catches, and he wraps his arms tighter around me. One hand shifts to cradle the back of my head, and his mouth brushes my temple in the softest kiss. No rush. Just presence.

He tilts his forehead to mine.

And then, quiet and wrecked and full of everything I never thought someone would say to me:

“I’ll always be here.”

We stay quiet for a while after the kiss.

Leaning into each other. Breathing like that’s enough.

And maybe it is.

But something in me stirs.

Not anxious. Not afraid.

Just… aching to be known.

So I speak.

Not loud. Not all at once.

Just—

“I used to write.”

Cal glances down at me, his brow soft.

I keep my eyes on the horizon.

“Nothing big. Just stories. Cheesy romance, mostly. But stuff that lived in my head and needed a place to go.”

He doesn’t interrupt.

I swallow. “I haven’t in a while.”

Still nothing from him.

No praise. No pressure.

Just quiet space.

“I guess… I stopped believing anyone would ever want to read what I had to say. Or that it would matter.”

That’s when his arms move.

He shifts behind me. Gathers me up like I weigh nothing.

Settles me into his lap, one strong arm curled around my back, the other resting warm across my thighs.

“You want to write?” he asks, voice low against my temple.

I nod.

“Then I’ll make sure you have the time and space to do it.”

I blink, startled.

“You don’t—”

“I do,” he says gently. “You deserve that, Emmy.”

And before I can say anything else—

He kisses my forehead.

Not rushed.

A promise settling under my skin. My breath softens, something loosens in my ribs, and for the first time in a long time, I feel held in a way that has nothing to do with arms and everything to do with being seen.

Like he means to hold this too. Not just my body. Not just my safety.

But the part of me that dreams.

The part I thought had gone quiet for good.

My eyes burn.

I bury my face in his chest.

And for the first time in a long time, I believe it.

That maybe what I carry isn’t too small or too silly or too much.

Maybe it’s just mine.

And maybe that’s enough.

CAL

She walks just ahead of me, Luca trotting beside her, Cleo dancing at her heels.

The late spring light filters through the trees, gilding the world in gold. But nothing in this forest comes close to the way she looks in it. My flannel hanging loose off her shoulders. Her hair pulled into a messy bun. The curve of her cheek catching the sun.

And still—none of that is what wrecks me.

It hits in my chest like a slow burn, low, aching, unmistakable. A heat that spreads behind my ribs and roots itself deep. Like her voice rewrote the way my heart beats.

That one word.

Daddy.

Said so quietly, like it might break between her lips.

And after—“Was that okay?”

As if she hadn’t just carved a place in my chest so deep it may never close again.

Jesus.

She could’ve asked for anything, and I would’ve given it.

But all she wants...

Is to write.

To have quiet mornings and safe nights and stories that live outside her head.

That’s it. Not money. Not fame. Not some grand escape. Just a little corner of the world where she’s safe enough to let her heart speak.

I’d build her a whole goddamn library if it meant she’d use it. I’d fill the shelves myself. I’d make her tea every night and light the fire before she wakes.

If that’s what she wants, I’ll make it happen.

I’ll give her everything.

Not just the roof over her head or the arms around her in the dark.

But this.

This peace. This stillness. This kind of love that lives in doing, not saying.

Because it’s not just her body I need to protect.

It’s her softness.

That open, aching tenderness that makes her smile at dogs and blush when I praise her. That makes her cry when she’s thanked, because somewhere along the way, someone convinced her she didn’t deserve it.

That’s the part of her I’d burn the world to defend.

She glances back over her shoulder, and when our eyes meet—

She smiles. Small, uncertain, and utterly sacred.

God, how is this real? How is she real?

I close the space between us. Rest my hand at her low back.

And silently vow—

That whatever comes next,

Whatever shadows we still have to face—I’ll shield her from them all. Not just with my body.

But with my soul.

The sun’s a little higher by the time we reach the cabin. Cleo bounds up the porch steps, Luca trailing with that steady shepherd gait of his. Head down, ears alert, always watching.

Emmy’s a little slower. Like maybe the weight of the day is catching up to her.

Or maybe she just doesn’t want it to end.

She pauses in the doorway, looking up at me with those wide, unreadable eyes.

My breath catches, just a little. Like something shifts in my chest. A warmth spreading low and sure, the kind that tells me I’d do anything to keep her looking at me like that.

As if she still can’t believe this is hers to come home to.

I press a hand to the small of her back.

Guide her in.

She takes off her shoes. Shrugs out of her sweater. That’s when I see it—the faint drag in her steps. The way her shoulders slope. How she leans just a little too long against the kitchen counter, like standing is more of a task than she wants me to know.

But I see it.

Of course I do.

I’m already peeling off my jacket. Walking toward her with slow, sure steps.

She straightens when she sees my expression.

“I’m fine,” she says quickly, too quickly. “I was just thinking—I could, I don’t know, help you with something. Laundry? Or maybe—”

“Emmy.”

I say it soft, but firm.

And she goes still.

“No more doing,” I tell her, closing the distance. “Not right now.”

She frowns. Shifts her weight. “But I’m not tired.”

“Mhm.”

I reach for the throw blanket on the couch, pat the cushions, letting the motion settle something quiet and certain in my chest. There’s a reverence to it I can’t name—this act of covering her, making space for her to rest. It feels like anchoring. Like love made visible.

I don’t even look to see what I turn on the TV—just something slow and quiet. Something with low voices and a lull of background music.

When I glance back, she’s watching me. Like she wants to argue. Like she might.

I crook a finger.

“C’mere.”

She sighs. Pretends she’s not smiling. But when she crosses the room and lets me wrap the blanket around her shoulders, she leans in.

Lets me guide her to the couch.

Tuck a pillow beneath her head.

I brush a strand of hair from her face.

“Try for me, baby,” I say, thumbing just beneath her cheekbone. “You deserve it.”

She closes her eyes.

Just for a second.

And then nods.

“Okay,” she whispers.

And I press a kiss to her forehead.

I don’t go far. Don’t want to.

But she needs sleep. Even if she won’t admit it. And after everything—after that soft, trembling yes, Daddy fell from her lips like it was meant for me all along—I need the space. Just a little. To breathe. To get my bearings.

To remind myself this is real.

So I step into the kitchen. Move quiet. Deliberate.

I pull out the cutting board, open the fridge. Grab the carrots I know she actually likes—the kind that get sweet when they’re cooked down in butter and thyme. She told me once. Shrugged like it didn’t matter. But it did. I heard it.

I get lost in it. In the rhythm of the knife, the whisper of the blade through vegetable. The way the light hits the countertop. I think about what else I can make. Something gentle. Something warm. Something that tells her without a word—

You’re safe now. I’ve got the rest.

Then I feel it.

A shift in the room. That quiet pull.

Her.

I glance over my shoulder.

And there she is—barely upright, a sleepy little head peeking over the back of the couch. Hair mussed. Cheeks warm with the flush of rest.

She blinks at me like she's surprised I’m still there. Like she still can’t believe any of this is real, either.

“Want me to help?” she murmurs. Voice all thick and soft.

God.

I nearly laugh. Not at her. At the ache that tugs in my chest, the instinct that wants to wrap her in my arms and never let her lift a finger again.

I set the knife down. Wipe my hands.

Walk right to her.

She starts to rise, but I press a hand to her shoulder. Gentle, firm. My thumb brushes once, grounding her.

"No, baby. Stay," I murmur, low and steady, the kind of voice meant to be obeyed.

I kneel beside her, heart thudding low and slow in my chest. The floor is cool beneath my knees, but all I feel is the heat of being this close—of being needed, trusted.

I let my fingers find her temple, trace down her jaw.

Then into her hair, soft and slow. Like I’m brushing through silk and prayer.

She reaches up and slides her fingers through mine, bringing them to rest by her chest. As if she needs to keep my touch.

I lean in. Let my mouth follow the path my hands took—her brow, her cheek. A kiss, then another.

Then I find her lips. And this one... this one’s soft, but full. Full of everything I haven’t said. Everything I will say. Every damn thing I mean.

“I’ve got it,” I whisper against her skin. “I’ve got you.”

She lets out a breath, like she’s been holding it this whole time. Like she believes me.

I don’t climb in with her.

Could.

God knows I want to. Want to hold her close and tuck her against my chest and stay there ‘til morning. But she’s halfway to sleep already, eyelids fluttering, body soft. If I slide in now, I’ll wake her.

So I kneel.

Stay right here, beside the couch.

One hand stroking slow through her hair. The other resting gentle on her arm. Just enough to let her know I’m here. That I’m not going anywhere.

She hums. Barely audible.

And I can feel it—that last little string of tension slipping from her shoulders, unwinding beneath my fingertips.

Her breathing evens out. Deepens. That soft little exhale of surrender.

Her chest rises, then falls in the slowest rhythm, her whole body softening beneath my touch.

Like every last thread of tension has finally let go.

Like she’s never felt safer.

And Christ, it guts me.

Not in a sharp way. Not pain.

But in that quiet, holy kind of way. Like watching snow fall over your front step. Like the silence of the woods before dawn.

I stay there. Just watching her.

She’s curled up small, one hand near her mouth. Legs tucked. Wrapped in the throw blanket I pulled over her, but still wearing my flannel. It nearly swallows her whole. She looks so little in it.

So mine.

My throat constricts at the sight, at the way she tucks into herself like she finally believes she’s safe enough to rest. Something in me stills, goes quiet. Like every instinct I’ve ever had has found its answer in her.

And I swear—this right here, this moment, with her safe and sleeping and soft in my shirt—

It might be the best thing I’ve ever done.

I press one last kiss to her temple. Whisper soft against her skin.

“That’s my girl.”

She doesn’t stir.

But her fingers twitch like they heard me.

And I kneel there a little longer, just watching her breathe, my heart too full for anything else.