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Then he leans down.

And finally, his mouth meets mine with nothing held back.

It’s not rushed or frantic. It’s deep. Like he’s trying to sink into this kiss—to find steadiness in it, to let it hold the parts of him that don’t get to rest.

My arms wind around his neck. His hands grip my waist like he’s trying to memorize the exact shape of me. My cheek brushes the edge of his collar, rough fabric catching on my skin. The zipper presses lightly against my ribs, anchoring me in his arms, in the now.

And when I melt into him—fully—he groans, low and raw, against my lips.

My tears come quiet.

No shudder. No sob.

Just soft, hot rivers slipping down my cheeks.

I don’t try to hide them.

But I don’t name them either.

He knows.

He feels them in the way I hold on tighter. In the way my fingers curl into the collar of his coat. In the way I kiss him back like I’d follow him into the dark if he’d let me.

But he won’t let me. And I don’t ask him to.

When the kiss finally breaks, he leans his forehead to mine.

One last breath shared.

Then he steps back.

His hand brushes down my arm, finds my fingers, and laces them with his.

He brings our joined hands to his lips.

Presses a kiss to my knuckles.

Then lowers them.

Lets them go. Then picks up the bag, slinging it over one shoulder like it weighs nothing—even though it holds everything.

I don’t step back.

I stay close. Right in the center of his gravity.

And he cups my face again.

Both hands now.

Thumbs brushing the tears I’m not crying—callused and warm, tracing along my cheeks with a gentleness that grounds me. His touch doesn’t rush. It lingers, like he’s memorizing every line of my face.

Just… shedding.

He studies me for one long, quiet moment.

And then his voice breaks the silence. Low. Steady. Unshakable.

“I love you.”

It lands in me like a promise. Like a vow. Like the safest place I’ve ever been.

He leans in again—one last kiss to my forehead. “And I’ll be back.”

I nod, my face still cradled in his palms. “I know,” I whisper. And I do.

But that doesn’t stop me from wrapping my arms around him again—tight. Desperate in the way only love can be when it knows it has to let go.

He holds me.

Full-body, heart-to-heart, all-in holds me. His heartbeat thuds slow and steady beneath my cheek, each rise of his chest anchoring me deeper. The warmth of him seeps into my skin like something cellular, something I’ll carry even after he’s gone.

One hand spreads wide across my back. The other cradles the back of my head.

And he murmurs it again, into my hair this time—his breath warm against my scalp, his chest vibrating softly beneath my cheek.

“I love you.”

I almost don’t say it back.

Not because I don’t want to.

But because if I try, I might not let go.

Still, I try. I lift my face just enough, my voice barely a whisper through the tears.

“I love you too.”

His arms tighten instantly, locking me to his chest. His breath shudders in deep, the kind that sounds like it’s been held back too long. His face bends to mine again, the scruff of his jaw brushing my temple, his voice so low it trembles against my skin.

“I needed that,” he murmurs.

I nod, eyes closing, my hand fisting in the fabric at his shoulder. “I did too.”

I press my face to his chest again and hold on, breathing him in. One breath centers me. The next roots me in him.

And finally—when I can’t hold him any tighter—he eases back just enough to look at me. His eyes linger.

Then he steps past me and opens the door.

A gust of night air spills through—sharp with pine, edged in ocean salt, humming with quiet purpose.

He turns back. “I’ll see you soon, sweet girl.”

And then—he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him, and I stand there.

Alone, but not lost.

Because the porch light is on. And the compass is with him. And I believe him.

I don’t move right away.

I just stand there, eyes on the door like maybe he’ll come back in—just to say it again.

But he doesn’t.

And I don’t expect him to.

Still… I cross to the window. Barefoot and slow. Press one hand to the glass, and cold seeps into my skin.

I look toward the edge of the woods, where the dark curls low and endless.

I don’t see him.

The Watcher.

But I didn’t expect to. I know he’s not meant to be seen.

Still, something in me softens, knowing he’s there. That Cal made sure of it.

My fingers slide down the glass, leaving a smudge that catches the light.

And then I turn away.

I move through the cabin like it might crack beneath my steps, the hush stretched so thin it feels like it could tear open if I breathe too loudly.

The dogs rise as I cross the room—Luca first, then Cleo, both of them watching me the way they always do when something changes.

I sink into the couch and curl up small. Tuck my feet under a quilt. Let the flannel Cal left behind slip around my shoulders like a second skin—soft and oversized, still warm with the shape of him. His scent clings to the fabric, and it drapes over me like an embrace that hasn’t fully let go.

The dogs settle beside me.

Cleo climbs up and wedges herself between the crook of my knees.

Luca rests his head in my lap.

It feels like something Cal would have made sure of—that I wouldn’t be alone. That I’d be flanked by warmth and loyalty, even in the hush that followed him walking out the door.

And God, it does help.

But it’s still quiet. Too quiet.

I think about the rules.

No going outside.

Even with the Watcher near.

The dogs have tethers. They’ll be fine. I just have to clip them on. Stay behind the door.

Text him three times a day.

I know it was to reassure him. But the moment he said it, it became a tether for me. My hand tightens around the phone without thinking, and my chest loosens by a hair—like the rule is holding me now instead of the other way around.

Something to hold. Something to count.

And now… God. It’s hard not to text him already.

Are you safe?

Are you close?

Are you still mine?

But I don’t.

Because I know how he moves when he needs to disappear.

And I promised.

Still…

I lift my phone. Turn it over in my hands.

Type his name.

Then stop.

My thumb hovers above the screen, the message half-formed, the pull to press send aching in my chest. But I lower the phone slowly, the phantom weight of his rules anchoring me.

The porch light flickers gently outside. The fire soft-crackles as the last of the logs settle, a steady sound beneath the hush—less a beacon than a heartbeat, warm and enduring.

And I breathe in the silence.

Not empty.

Just waiting.