Page 58

“Let me cook,” I offer. “Please. Just this once.”

His hand stills on the fridge handle, and he turns his head slightly, brows lifting—not in surprise, but in quiet consideration. That weighty, assessing pause that always makes my heart flutter.

And when his eyes meet mine, something softens.

He doesn’t smile. Not really.

But he shakes his head.

“No, baby. I need to do this.”

I blink.

He steps toward me, quiet and certain. One hand finds my cheek, thumb grazing just under my eye.

“Letting me take care of you tonight… that’s how I stay grounded. It’s how I remember what I’m coming back for.” His thumb presses just a little firmer beneath my eye, brushing slowly down to the curve of my cheek like he’s anchoring us both there.

That undoes me.

I nod, settling back into the cushions. Hands folded in my lap. Watching him move.

He makes something simple. Comforting. Grilled cheese and tomato soup, but the good kind—the thick bread, the pan-seared butter hissing low in the pan, the herbs from the jar above the sink releasing their warmth into the air.

The smell wraps around the kitchen like a memory.

He does it slow. Intentional. Like it matters.

And when he brings me my bowl, he kisses my hair before he sits beside me and eats his own.

We don’t speak much. We don’t need to.

But once the dishes are cleared and the fire’s glowing warm, he takes my hand and pulls me into his lap again.

His arms fold around me like he’s drawing a line around everything that’s his.

His fingers flex slightly on my waist, and I feel the slow shift of his breath against my hair.

Then he leans close.

“While I’m gone,” he murmurs, “you stay inside. I don’t care how nice it gets out. You take the dogs out on their tethers. That’s it. No walks. No woods.”

I nod against his chest.

“I mean it,” he adds gently. “The Watcher’s nearby, but I don’t want to give anyone a chance to try you.”

“Okay,” I whisper. “What else?”

His hand rubs slow circles into my back.

“Check in. Three times a day. Text me. Morning, midday, and night.” His hand stills for a beat on my back, the slow circles pausing as he levels me with that look—the one that says this isn’t up for negotiation.

I breathe him in. “Can you do the same?”

He pulls back just enough to look into my face.

“Of course.”

He brushes his lips over my forehead. “I’ll text you more than that if I can. But you’ll hear from me. You’ll know I’m okay.”

Tears sting the backs of my eyes.

I nod again.

And he presses his lips to the top of my head.

“Good girl.”

His lips brush the top of my head again, the words a warm rumble near my ear, low and certain—like a promise.

He doesn’t let go of me.

Not when the fire pops. Not when the shadows grow longer. Not even when the wind shifts outside, brushing low along the eaves.

He just holds me.

And then—gently—he eases me back against the couch cushions.

His body folds over mine like a shield. Not heavy. Just there. Solid. Quiet. Anchoring. The warm press of muscle and denim settles over me—immovable, reassuring.

His face buries into the side of my neck, his breath warm against my skin.

And for a moment, I forget everything else.

There’s only this.

His weight. His warmth. The slow rise and fall of his chest against mine.

His lips graze the edge of my jaw.

Then my cheekbone.

And the place behind my ear—the one that always stills me, every time. The one he never forgets.

“I love you,” he murmurs.

It lands like a tether. Like gravity.

“I’ll be back.”

I nod, my fingers curling into the back of his shirt.

“I’ll be waiting,” I whisper. “Always.”

He exhales. Long. Slow.

His body presses closer. Arms wrapped all the way around me now, as if he could climb inside this moment and stay there forever.

And just as I feel his lips brush mine—

A knock.

Low. Measured. One beat only.

We don’t move at first.

We just breathe, holding that moment like glass.

Then Cal draws back, just enough for our eyes to meet.

They’re steady. So full of something I don’t have words for.

He kisses my forehead once more.

And then he stands.

Then—

A knock.

Just one.

Low. Steady.

Not rushed.

I don’t flinch. But something in me goes still.

The knock is still echoing through the wood when Cal steps to the door.

He doesn’t rush.

Just reaches for the handle, turning it with quiet purpose. Like he already knows who stands on the other side.

The firelight flickers near the threshold, faint shadows stretching across the porch but never quite reaching him.

And then—

There he is.

The man Cal called The Watcher.

He stands just outside the circle of light. No urgency in his stance. No threat. Just presence. Like he’s been here before. Like he never truly left.

He’s dressed plainly—heavy canvas jacket, dark pants, cap pulled low. And in his right hand, he holds a duffel. Weathered. Unmarked. The kind of bag that says nothing… but holds everything.

They don’t speak.

Cal doesn’t need to.

He steps forward, takes the bag. Nods once.

The Watcher returns it. That one slow, weighted nod.

He doesn’t step inside.

Their eyes meet. Something passes between them—acknowledgment, understanding.

And then, without a word, The Watcher turns and slips back into the dusk.

Cal shuts the door behind him with a quiet finality. The cabin seals around us—but something in the air has shifted. The world outside hasn’t changed. But we have.

Because now I’ve seen him.

And now he’s seen me.

My fingers curl tightly around the edge of the cushion, breath held without realizing. Cal sets the bag down by his boots. He leaves it closed. Says nothing about it. Just lets it sit there between us like a held breath.

He just walks back to me, slow and quiet, and kneels at my feet.

His hands find my knees. Warm and sure.

“I wanted you to see him,” he says. “That’s all.”

I nod.

“I’m not afraid,” I whisper. “Not of him.”

His thumb brushes over the back of my hand.

“And of me?” he asks softly.

I shake my head, tears pricking.

“No, Daddy,” I murmur, voice trembling now.

“Never of you.” I pull his hand between mine, cradling it like something sacred. “You’re the only place I’ve ever felt safe. The only person who’s never made me feel like too much.”

His breath shudders quietly through his nose, and when I glance up, his jaw is tight.

“I’d never hurt you, baby,” he murmurs. “Not in this lifetime, not in any scenario. Not even if the whole world turned sideways, baby. I’d never hurt you. That’s not who I am. That’s not what we do.”

His voice dips lower, steady and raw. “I need you to know that. Need to hear you say it. Because the things I have to do… they’re not always clean. But this, you and me, this is the line I won’t cross. Ever.”

I nod, and something inside me cracks wide open.

“I know,” I whisper. “That’s why I trust you.”

He closes his eyes.

Just for a second.

Then presses a kiss to the inside of my wrist—slow, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of my pulse. Like a vow sealed in silence.

He doesn’t go back to the kitchen.

Doesn’t check the locks again or stoke the fire or fill the silence with anything unneeded.

He just turns to me.

“Come with me,” he says softly.

I follow.

Not out of fear. But choice.

He brings me into the bedroom, and this time… he doesn’t close the door.

The duffel sits at the end of the bed. The firelight spills in through the open door, flickering across the walls. The bag The Watcher brought waits near the foot of the dresser, its seams drawn tight. Weighted—not just in heft, but in meaning.

Cal doesn’t speak as he reaches for his shirt.

He pulls the soft cotton one he’s wearing over his head, slow and steady, the scar at his side catching the light for just a moment.

And then he reaches for the dark one.

The one that clings closer. That speaks of movement. Of quiet work in the dark.

He buttons it all the way to the collar.

Then the pants—not denim, but tactical fabric. Stiff at the seams. Familiar in a way I’ve never seen, but somehow still know.

Then the jacket.

Black. Sleek. It hugs his shoulders, accentuating the broad strength of him. Moves with him like a second skin, like it was made for his frame—and no one else’s.

The man in front of me is not a stranger. He’s the same man who made me soup and held me through my panic—who laid me across his lap when I forgot how to breathe.

But now… there’s something different in his spine, in the way he checks the sleeves over his wrists, in the slight flex of his hands. It’s not tension. It’s readiness.

And I don’t look away.

I don’t step back. I just move to him—close enough to press my hand to the zipper of his coat and tug it up gently, all the way to the top.

I smooth the fabric flat with my palm, the material cool and structured beneath my hand—stiff at the seams, like it’s built to shield more than just skin.

Then I reach for the compass.

It’s still on the nightstand. Where I left it after holding it all afternoon.

I place it in his hand.

He tucks it into the inside pocket.

Doesn’t speak.

But his hand finds the back of my neck.

And he leans in.

Forehead to mine. His skin is warm against mine, the heat of him grounding me, the hush of his breath brushing my cheek like a tether I didn’t know I needed.

“This doesn’t change anything,” he murmurs. “What I’m wearing. Where I’m going. Who I used to be.”

My breath catches.

“I know.”

“I’m still yours.”

I nod.

“I’m still coming home.”

My eyes sting.

I press my lips to his.

Once.

Then again.

He exhales like it’s the only thing he’s been waiting for. He doesn’t reach for his bag right away—just stands there, breathing me in. One hand still cupping the back of my neck, the other pressed against the curve of my spine.

I look up at him.

And I know I shouldn’t say it again.

But I do.

“I love you.”

His breath hitches. Just a little.

My own breath mirrors his, catching sharp in my chest as something flickers through me—recognition, ache, the weight of knowing I’ve broken through.