I nodded slowly, understanding exactly what he meant. Daphne wasn't a project to be fixed or a problem to be solved. She was a person—complex, wounded, fiercely independent—who deserved to be loved for exactly who she was, walls and all.
"We have to protect her," I said quietly. "From Trinity, from her own doubts, from everyone who's ever made her feel like she wasn't enough. I know we can't fix her past, can't undo the damage that's already been done. But we can be different. We can prove that not everyone leaves."
"That's the plan." Garrett clapped a hand on my shoulder, the weight of it reassuring. "One day at a time. One small gesture at a time. Until she believes it."
Long after Garrett headed to bed, I stayed in the kitchen, watching the dough slowly rise beneath its cotton shroud. The house was silent around me, only the distant hooting of an owl and the settling creaks of old wood breaking the stillness.
I pulled out my phone and stared at Daphne's contact for a long moment. Oliver had texted her earlier, and she'd confirmed she'd made it home safely. But I wanted... I didn't know what I wanted. To hear her voice. To know she was okay. To tell herthat tomorrow, when I showed up with fresh bread, it wasn't just about the bread.
In the end, I typed out a simple message:
Tonight was really nice. Thank you for trusting us enough to come. Sleep well, Daphne.
I hit send before I could overthink it, then set the phone face-down on the counter. The reply came faster than I expected, the buzz making my heart stutter.
Thank you for making me feel welcome. And for the focaccia—it was incredible. Goodnight, Levi.
A smile spread across my face, wide and probably ridiculous. Such simple words, but they meant everything. She'd complimented my baking. She'd said goodnight, a small intimacy that felt like a door cracking open.
Tomorrow, I'd bring her fresh sourdough, still warm from the oven. I'd check on her, make sure Trinity hadn't tried anything else. I'd keep showing up, keep proving that some people stayed.
Because Daphne was worth it. Worth every early morning spent kneading dough, every patient conversation, every moment of waiting for her to trust us. She was worth it all, and somehow, against all odds, she was choosing to give us a chance.
I wasn't about to waste it.
The kitchen light cast warm shadows on the walls as I finally turned off the stove and headed toward my room. I fell asleep with the scent of yeast on my hands and the image of Daphne's tentative smile burned into my memory, the promise of tomorrow's bread already taking shape in my dreams.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Daphne
Sleep came in fragments…restless stretches of dreams woven with grey eyes and warm kitchens, the scent of rosemary and the echo of laughter I hadn't known I was capable of. Each time I surfaced into wakefulness, the cabin felt different. Not lonely, exactly, but waiting. Like the walls themselves were holding their breath, anticipating something I couldn't name.
When morning finally arrived, pale gold light filtering through my curtains, I lay still for a long moment and let myself remember. The dinner. The way Garrett had watched me with quiet understanding. Oliver's steady presence, anchoring the room. Micah's sharp observations that somehow never cut. Levi with his easy grin, his focaccia, and the text message that still glowed on my phone like a small miracle.
Tonight was really nice. Thank you for trusting us enough to come. Sleep well, Daphne.
I'd read it six times before falling asleep. Memorized the shape of each word, the simple sincerity behind them. And my reply—Thank you for making me feel welcome. And for thefocaccia—it was incredible. Goodnight, Levi—felt like a door I'd opened without meaning to.
Maybe without wanting to close it again.
The thought should have terrified me. Instead, it settled into my chest like something warm and fragile, a seed planted in soil I'd thought was barren.
I went through my morning routine on autopilot—shower, dress, coffee—but everything felt slightly off-kilter, tilted toward some new axis I couldn't quite identify. The face in my bathroom mirror looked the same as alway calico hair still damp, green eyes shadowed from restless sleep. Yet something underneath had shifted, some wall had cracked, and light was seeping through.
The garden called me outside, as it always did. The late morning sun was gentle, filtered through high clouds that promised warmth without the brutal heat of full summer. I knelt in the dirt between rows of tomatoes, my hands finding their familiar rhythm—pull, check, nurture, move on. The plants didn't care about my confusion. They just needed water and attention and time, and in return, they gave me something to show for my efforts. Something real and tangible and mine.
I was elbow-deep in mulch, spreading it around the base of my pepper plants, when I heard the truck.
My heart seized—a visceral, instinctive response that sent me scrambling to my feet, soil cascading from my gloves. Trinity. The thought sliced through me like ice water.She's finally decided to come to my home, confront me in my sanctuary, she'd?—
The truck that rounded the bend wasn't sleek or expensive or anything Trinity would be caught dead driving. It was a deep green Ford, practical and dust-covered, and behind the wheel sat a broad-shouldered figure with tousled hair and a smile I could see even from fifty feet away.
Levi.
The relief that washed through me was immediate and overwhelming, followed quickly by something else—something warmer, more complicated. He pulled up near my gate and cut the engine, and I watched him climb out with that easy grace, a paper bag clutched in one hand. He wore a soft blue shirt today, the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms dusted with what looked like flour. His jeans were worn at the knees, his boots scuffed from actual use, and when he spotted me standing among my vegetables like some dirt-covered garden spirit, his face lit up.
"Hey, neighbor," he called, his voice carrying across the morning air. "I brought an offering. Or just... bread. Bread I made too much of and figured you might want."
