Quinn is mine. Not because I claimed her or defended her or provided for her, but because somewhere along the way, sheclaimed me right back. She carved herself into my chest and made a home there, and no amount of distance is going to change that.
I just have to prove I can be the partner she needs.
I stand and move to the window, staring across the alley at her darkened bakery. The building looks quiet. Peaceful.
Then I hear it.
A crash. Metal on metal, followed by a muffled curse.
My entire body goes rigid, instinct flaring hot and immediate. That came from the shared dumpster area behind our buildings.
I'm moving before I can think, taking the stairs three at a time, shoving through my back door and into the alley. The streetlight overhead flickers weakly, casting long shadows across the pavement.
Another crash. Definitely coming from the dumpsters.
I round the corner and freeze.
Quinn is there, struggling with a massive industrial trash bag that's clearly too heavy for her. She's trying to hoist it into the dumpster, her face flushed with effort, her hair escaping its usual neat ribbon.
She hasn't seen me yet.
Every instinct I have screams at me to cross the space between us, to take the bag from her hands, to lift it into the dumpster for her so she doesn't have to strain.
But I don't move.
She said she didn't need me to solve her problems. She said she needed me to respect her agency.
So I stay exactly where I am, my hands clenched into fists at my sides, she wrestles the bag toward the dumpster's edge.
She gets it halfway up before her grip slips. The bag tumbles back down, landing on her foot with a solid thump.
"Son of a—" She cuts herself off, hopping backward and shaking out her foot.
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood, forcing myself to stay still.
She glares at the bag like it personally offended her, then bends to try again.
This time, she gets it higher. Her arms are shaking with the effort, her entire body straining, but she manages to hook the bag over the dumpster's lip and shove it inside with a final, determined push.
The bag disappears into the dumpster with a satisfying crash.
Quinn straightens, breathing hard, and wipes her hands on her apron.
And then she sees me.
We stare at each other across the narrow alley, frozen in place like two fighters waiting for the other to make the first move.
Her expression is unreadable. Surprise. Wariness. Something that might be longing, or might just be the flickering streetlight playing tricks on my desperate, hopeful brain.
I should say something. I should apologize again, should explain what I've been doing, should beg her to give me another chance.
But all I can manage is her name.
"Quinn."
CHAPTER 15
QUINN
