“When it was over—and I saw what I’d done—it sobered me instantly. I called 911 from his phone, packed a bag, left a note for my mom, and got on the next bus out.” He pauses, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles again. “Thirty-four hours later, I showed up here and asked Heath for a job. I still don’t know what made him say yes, but I’ll never stop being grateful that he did. I promised him and myself I would never be like my dad.”
I sit there, my heart breaking quietly in my chest for him, letting the silence settle heavily between us.
“And now I’m promising you,” he adds quietly.
I can barely breathe. “Thank you,” I say softly. “I’m glad fate brought you here.”
He squeezes my hand a little tighter, like letting go might unravel him completely.
Instead of filling the silence with words, I watch him. Memorizing the way his shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, the quiet storm behind his eyes, the way he won’t quite meet my eyes—like distance is his safety net.
Like wanting something doesn’t mean believing you actually deserve it.
I don’t know how to tell him that this, him trusting me and letting me in, means more than he could ever know. That I’ve spent most of my life waiting for someone to meet me halfway.
When the check comes, he pays without hesitation. Then he stands, moving around the table to pull out my chair, offering his hand again.
I thread my fingers through his, like it’s the most natural thing I’ve ever done.
We step out into the cold summer night air, but I don’t feel the chill.
All I feel is him.
His hand brushes my waist as I climb into the truck. It’s barely a touch, but it sends sparks straight through me.
And for one suspended heartbeat, I almost tell him everything—that even though I’m scared, I want him anyway.
But I don’t.
When he shuts the door, the world goes still. It’s just me, my racing pulse, and the lingering ghost of his hand.
And for the first time in my life, I stop pretending.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SADIE
Thedoorclicksshutbeside me, sealing us in. Lane slides behind the wheel while I fumble with my seatbelt, trying my best to ignore the way my hands itch to reach for him, how I’m just one breath away from giving in.
He starts the engine but doesn’t move, his hands rubbing up and down his thighs.
Then he looks at me and all the air in my lungs disappears.
Only the dash light glows between us, a dim wash of blue that sharpens the line of his jaw and the quiet storm in his eyes.
Something has changed—something darker, rawer. As if he’s done pretending too, his final thread of control fraying.
My breath catches. My heart drums hard enough that I swear he can hear it.
I should say something. Fill the silence. Make a joke.
But I can’t.
Because I know that expression. I’ve worn it for weeks—quiet and desperate and barely restrained.
And now he’s staring at me like he feels it, too.
I can’t wait another second. Not with the way he’s watching me. The way my body remembers every place he’s touched me.I need him.
