“I just don’t trust him around you,” he mutters.
I lift a brow. “Atlas isn’t the enemy.”
“He’s not an ally, either,” Hopper counters. “Not yet.”
I study him, the way he tries to mask his frustration, the way his fingers are still clenched, and I sigh softly.
“Hopper,” I say gently. “Atlas cares about me, as a friend. Maybe even a little sister. He also cares about Maddie too. You need to trust me.”
That makes him pause. His shoulders relax just slightly, but his eyes stay guarded.
After a beat, he exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. “I don’t know if I can trust him . . . I want to, but it’s hard.”
I reach across the counter, my fingers brushing over his hand, squeezing gently.
“You don’t have to yet,” I say softly. “But I do.”
His eyes flick to mine, searching. And finally—after a long moment of silence—he nods.
Maddie claps her hands. “Pancakes.”
The moment shifts, tension melting as Hopper gets up, ruffling her curls before setting the plate in front of her.
“Here you go, pumpkin. Extra syrup, just how you like it.”
Maddie gasps, delighted, grabbing her fork with both hands. “Thank you, Daddy.”
Hopper’s chest expands, his entire body softening.
He presses a kiss to the top of her head before sitting back down, his eyes catching mine over the rim of his coffee mug.
And for a moment, everything feels normal. No stalkers. No threats. No danger looming over our heads.
Just Hopper, Maddie . . . just us.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Nysa
Weekends in Birchwood Springs are always lively, but when there’s a festival in town, it’s a whole other world.
The streets are packed with people, booths lining the sidewalks selling homemade crafts, fresh lemonade, kettle corn, and of course maple syrup. The scent of roasted nuts and sugar fills the air, mixing with the distant sound of a bluegrass band playing from the gazebo in the town square.
Children run past, their laughter bright and infectious, their faces painted with butterflies and superheroes.
And right in the middle of it all?
Maddie.
Perched on Hopper’s broad shoulders, her tiny fingers woven into his hair as she giggles, pointing at every little thing that catches her attention.
“Daddy, dook,” Maddie gasps, kicking her little feet excitedly as we pass a stand selling stuffed farm animals.
Hopper lifts a brow, pretending to be unimpressed. “Hmm. What am I looking at, Pumpkin?”
She leans down dramatically, her little arms wrapping around his forehead so she can whisper, “A hosey.”
“Horsey,” I correct her.
