She shrugged, cool and defiant. “Do you not have a washing machine at your place?”
“I do…” I laughed, the sound rough. “But the bookstore’s still standing, right?”
“Technically, I still have three days off,” she said, her voice a little teasing now. “So if you want me to go, you better make a damn strong case.” And then — with a sharp little smile lighting up her eyes. “Trying to get rid of me?”
My chest tightened. How could I say no without sounding desperate? Because the truth was, I wasn’t trying to get rid of her. Iwas terrified she’d see how much I was still unraveling. “No,” I said, voice catching. “Not even close.”
Her hand found my thigh, warm and steady.
I caught her smirk in the rearview mirror, and damn if it didn’t make my chest tighten. “I’m not great at this, you know.”
“Neither am I,” she admitted, reaching over to squeeze my thigh. “But you’ve been really good at showing up for me.” That squeeze was a promise. A lifeline. “Let me show up for you, cowboy.”
I exhaled slowly, then glanced back at her — this stubborn, brilliant woman who was hellbent on being close, even if it drove me crazy. “Alright,” I said finally, voice rough with something close to relief. “Stay. But only if you promise to help me keep the chaos contained.”
She laughed, the sound warm in the car’s quiet. “Deal.”
The car hummed quietly beneath us, the world outside dark and still. No music. No words. Just the soft rhythm of tires on pavement and the steady beat of our breathing.
It was one of those rare silences — heavy with everything we didn’t need to say, but full of the promise of what was yet to come.
When I pulled into the driveway, the stupid, large rental house loomed in the shadowed quiet, lights glowing warm and soft through the windows. It was almost eight o’clock.
We stepped inside; the door closed behind us with a gentle click that felt louder than it should in the calm of the night. The air was cool, smelling faintly of pine and wood smoke, the last traces of fall clinging to the windowsill.
Junie leaned into me, a weight and a comfort I didn’t want to lose. “Home,” I murmured, more to myself than her.
“There’s no place else I’d rather be,” she murmured, the soft thud of her bags hitting the floor breaking the quiet.
The house smelled faintly of cedar and old books — a placeI’d lived in for months but somehow felt different now. Better. Softer. Like maybe it wasn’t just mine anymore.
She moved around easily, tossing her coat over the back of a chair, kicking off her shoes without a care. Watching her make herself at home like she belonged was both comforting and terrifying.
I stood just inside the doorway, hands shoved in my pockets, muscles tight in ways I couldn’t shake. The noise of the world outside — the chaos of the film, Kellogg’s rage — still buzzed in my ears, but here it softened.
“This is home,” I mumbled, more to myself than her.
June glanced up, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Feels like it.”
I wanted to believe her. I needed to.
She came over then, gently pressing her palm to my cheek, her touch light but grounding. “You don’t have to carry it all alone, you know.”
I swallowed, the weight of everything pressing down, but with her there — with her hand on me — it felt a little less heavy. “I’m trying not to break,” I said, voice rough.
“Why?” she whispered. “You’re allowed to hurt, Ansel.”
And just like that, the house felt less empty. She was already unpacking, tossing her things onto the worn couch like she’d claimed it — like it was hers, not just mine.
The low hum of the heater filled the room. I found myself just watching her, the way her fingers lingered on the fabric of the blanket draped over the armrest, how her hair caught the dim light.
She caught my gaze, raising an eyebrow with a small, knowing smile. “You’re just staring now,” she said softly.
I grinned, stepping closer until the space between us was almost nothing. “You’re distracting.”
Her hand slid up to my chest, thumb brushing over my collarbone. “I’m… home,” she said, voice low, full of something I wouldn’tdarename but wanted to hold on to.
I reached out, fingertips tracing the curve of her jaw, then threading into her hair, pulling her closer so our foreheads rested together. The tension I’d carried all day started to melt — not completely, but enough to breathe again.
