Page 54

EMMY

I hear him before I see him.

Muted thumps above the ceiling, the low creak of wood adjusting under his weight. Then the soft scrape of something heavy being pulled across old floorboards.

The attic.

I blink up from where I’m curled in the armchair, quilted and warm and not quite ready to face the day. Luca lifts his head beside me but doesn’t move, just watches the ceiling with sleepy eyes. Cleo is already awake, pawing lazily at the window ledge where the sun spills in gold.

There’s no rush here. Not with Cal.

I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders, listening. Another rustle, then a low grunt. The trapdoor clicks open, and a ladder creaks downward in slow, steady intervals.

I smile into the softness of the quilt, already picturing the way his brows must be drawn, the way his mouth tilts when he’s focused.

There’s something about hearing him move through the house that makes my chest feel full in the best kind of way.

Like I’m witnessing something sacred. Like I get to belong here, the first time I’ve felt like I could belong anywhere.

The cabin settles again. Footsteps land firm and quiet on the floorboards, the soft thud of his boots carrying a kind of weight that makes the room feel steadier just by having him in it. A beat later, Cal steps into the room carrying something in both arms.

An old wooden trunk.

It’s scuffed at the corners, the brass hinges dulled with age. Cal sets it down with a quiet exhale and rests a hand on the lid, not opening it yet. He looks over at me, and I see it then—just beneath the stillness in his gaze. That almost imperceptible shift.

Like whatever’s in that trunk matters. Like it might matter to me.

“Found this when I was checking the beams,” he says. His voice is low, sleep-rough still. “Been meaning to bring it down for a while.”

I nod, not quite trusting my voice, because something in the air has changed. I don’t know what it is yet, only that it’s soft and serious and stitched with that hush he carries when he’s about to tell me something important.

He lowers himself to the floor beside the trunk, then looks up at me.

“Come here, little one.”

My breath catches at the sound of it. The floor is cool beneath my bare feet as I rise, legs a little unsteady. But I go, heart thudding for no good reason except that his voice—his voice—said come.

I sink beside him, our knees nearly touching, his body radiating warmth in the quiet space between us.

The heat of him seeps into my side, grounding and steadying, like even just being close to him is enough to make the world feel safer.

The trunk waits between us, quiet and old and full of something I can’t name yet.

Cal doesn’t open it right away. He watches me for a long moment, his thumb brushing the edge of the lid.

“I used to think this stuff didn’t matter,” he says finally. “Old uniforms. Photos. Some books. Things I’ve had packed away for years. Most of it I was ready to throw out.”

I nod again, swallowing thickly. My hands rest in my lap, fingers curled tight together.

“But one thing… I kept for a reason I didn’t understand until now.”

He lifts the lid.

And the world stills.

Inside, everything is neatly folded. Stacked like it matters. Like he’s touched it recently. A photograph rests on top—a black-and-white image, corners curled slightly from time, tucked into the cover of a worn book.

Cal lifts the photo first, brushing his thumb along the edge. He doesn’t pass it to me right away. Just studies it for a long moment, something unreadable moving through his expression.

Then, slowly, he turns it so I can see.

Two figures stand in front of what looks like a weathered cabin—different from this one. The man on the left is unmistakably him. Younger, hard-eyed, the set of his jaw sharper. His arm is around a woman older than him, her smile soft and crinkling her whole face.

“She was the first person who made me believe I wasn’t too far gone,” Cal says.

“Didn’t share blood. Didn’t matter. She called me hers anyway.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then—

“She’d have liked you.”

My throat tightens.

He sets the photo aside. Reaches into the trunk again.

The next thing he lifts is a flannel. Soft with age, the fabric thinned in places from years of wear. The color is muted red and pine green, the kind of pattern that looks like it belongs in a life that was once hard and lonely but still standing.

“I wore this through the worst of it,” he murmurs. “Kept me warm. Made me feel human.”

He pauses. Looks down at it. “Thought about burning it once. Couldn’t bring myself to.”

He folds it gently, then places it into my lap. The flannel is soft, worn thin at the edges, and it smells faintly of cedar and smoke—of him. The weight of it settles against me like a memory that’s been waiting for a home.

“Didn’t know I was saving it for someone. Guess I was.”

I can’t speak. I don’t dare breathe.

His hand returns to the trunk, pulling free a compass next. It’s heavy in his palm, worn silver with scratches across the casing. The kind of thing that’s been through things.

“Used this in the field,” he says. “Never trusted GPS. This got me back more times than I can count.”

He hesitates.

“I kept it to remind myself there’s always a way home.”

Then his eyes lift to mine.

“But I don’t need that reminder anymore.”

He presses it into my hand. His fingers linger, grounding and steady, until the tremble in mine begins to quiet. I don't realize how tightly I’m holding on until his thumb brushes over my knuckles, slow and sure, like he’s giving me permission to let go—just a little.

The final item is the book.

Slim. Weathered. Its pages are yellowed with age. The title is long since rubbed away from the spine, but when he opens it, I see poetry. Lines written like prayers.

He flips to a dog-eared page. The corner creased so long ago it’s nearly torn.

“I don’t remember the first time I marked this,” he says softly. “Just knew it meant something.”

He lets me read.

“Someone once said the world breaks us all, and afterward, many are strong at the broken places.”

“But I think some of us… We don’t break clean.”

“We stay splintered. Still sharp at the edges.”

“Until someone comes along who knows how to touch the hurt without making it bleed.”

The tears come before I even notice, slipping free just as his thumb finds my cheek—warm and rough from work, steady in its gentleness. The touch is careful, like he’s trying to soothe something far deeper than tears. Gentle. Sure.

I close the book, hold it close.

And whisper, “Why now?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“Because you’re mine.”

That word—mine—pulls something so deep it almost hurts. My mouth wobbles. My arms tighten around the book like it might anchor me to the floor.

“I don’t deserve this,” I whisper.

Cal stills.

I keep my gaze low. “Not the flannel. Not this house. Not you.” My voice barely makes it out. “I don’t deserve to be… someone who’s given things. Who’s chosen.”

His silence is so heavy I almost rush to fill it. But then I hear the shift. The quiet weight of him moving closer.

A warm hand rests under my chin, coaxing my face up.

His eyes are steady. Calm. But I see it—the ache.

“No, baby,” he says. “That’s not your voice talking. That’s theirs. The ones who taught you love was something you had to earn. That you had to shrink yourself to be worth anything.”

A breath leaves me. Shaky.

“You do deserve this,” he murmurs. “All of it. You deserve to be safe. To be held. To be someone’s everything.”

My face crumples.

He pulls me into his lap, cradling me close. I fold in instantly and his arms tighten around me, firm and sure. The slow rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek, the solid heat of him seeps into my skin. I melt into it, into him, like I’ve finally found the place I was meant to rest.

And then I say it.

Not loudly. Just soft. Broken.

“He was going to sell it.”

Cal’s arms go still.

“The bike. My Surron.” My fingers bunch in the fabric at his side, not out of fear but something closer to anchoring—like if I hold on tight enough, I won’t come undone. “And I was going to let him.”

He exhales, slow and tight.

“I listened to that voicemail, and I... I just froze. I told myself it wasn’t worth the fight. That it was just a thing. But it wasn’t. It was the last thing that was mine.” My voice catches. “And I was ready to let him take it.”

There’s a pause. A long one.

Then he tips my face up again.

“You weren’t ready to let him take anything,” Cal says. “You told me.”

My lip trembles. “Because I didn’t know what else to do.”

He leans in, his forehead brushing mine, the rough stubble on his jaw grazing my skin. His breath is warm between us, steady and close, like a tether pulling me back to now.

“You trusted me. That’s what matters.”

I want to believe him. Want to let that be enough.

But it doesn’t quiet the storm inside.

Because I did hesitate. I did almost say nothing. And even though he came—stormed into that garage without blinking, took the keys, took the bike, took back what was mine—I can’t stop thinking about the part that still doubted.

My voice is barely a breath. “You didn’t even flinch.”

He frowns, brow pulling in. “What?”

“When I played you that voicemail.” My throat aches. “When he said those things. Said he was selling the bike.” I swallow. “You didn’t even flinch. You just… went.”

Cal says nothing. His eyes are so steady it feels like they’re holding me up.

“I think that’s what wrecked me the most,” I whisper. “That you didn’t hesitate. That you didn’t ask if I was overreacting. Or if I’d misunderstood. You just knew. You acted.”

I press the book tighter to my chest, like it’ll stop my ribs from shaking.

“I’ve never had that before.”

My voice breaks on the last word, and Cal moves. Just enough to gather me in—kneeling now, arms wrapping tight around me. I fold into him, shaking.