“I can leave?—”
“No, you can’t.”
Frustration rises hot in my chest, and for the first time in years, my eyes burn. I do not cry. I refuse. But my throat tightens, my vision blurs, and I know he sees it.
The sound of another truck rumbles up the drive, and suddenly, Hopper is there, climbing out, Maddie in his arms.
The second I see them, the fight leaves me.
Hopper’s gaze sweeps over me, then flicks to Malerick. He takes one look at my face, my shaking hands, and his own expression shifts—concern settling deep in his features.
Without a word, he hands Maddie to Malerick and reaches for me.
I don’t mean to move.
I don’t mean to lean into him, to let the warmth of his body sink past the walls I’ve fought to keep standing.
But my feet betray me. My body betrays me.
And when his arms wrap around me—strong, certain, unrelenting—I break. A sob tears free, raw and aching, spilling from a place so buried I thought it was long gone.
Because after three years of running, three years of slipping through life without leaving a trace, this is the first time someone else has felt real.
And I don’t know if I can hold on to that without falling apart.
Chapter Six
Nysa
In the end, they convince me to leave.
Not just to get out of the house for a night—to move into Hopper’s place. Temporarily, they say. For safety. Something about state-of-the-art security, quick sheriff response times, and how my broken locks and shattered nerves aren’t enough to keep me safe.
I don’t argue.
I don’t have it in me.
Hopper’s house is different from mine in every way. The walls are sage green, warm and inviting under the soft glow of golden sconces. The furniture is lived-in but cared for, every cushion fluffed, every wooden surface wiped clean. The air smells like fresh coffee and something faintly sweet.
It’s a home. A place built for love, laughter, and memories that don’t haunt the hallways.
It reminds me of the house I grew up in—the one filled with warmth and soft music, the one where my parents were alive, and the world still made sense.
When we arrive, Hopper leads me to the guest room. I take a shower, let the hot water scald away the last twenty-four hours, and collapse into bed. When I wake, my phone says I’ve been asleep for nearly a day.
I don’t feel rested. I have lunch with Hopper and Maddie. Since he fed me, I offer to do the dishes and tidy up the kitchen.
Now, I sit cross-legged on the floor of the living room, facing Maddie. She stacks colorful blocks into a tower, her little fingers working with careful precision. She hums under her breath, completely absorbed in her task, and every so often, she glances up at me with a wide, purely happy smile.
Her curls bounce when she moves, and I feel my lips tug into something soft—something that almost feels like a real smile.
“You’re really good at this,” I say, picking up a block and carefully adding it to her wobbly tower.
She claps her hands, eyes shining. “Daddy, dook.”
Across the room, Hopper leans against the doorframe. His arms are crossed, his gaze shifting between us, unreadable. He’s been quiet since I woke up, since I finally stopped falling apart long enough to sit here and pretend things are normal.
I can’t tell if he’s giving me space or waiting for me to break again.
