She hangs up, and I pull her in close. “Did I just hear what I thought I heard?”
She smiles and wraps her arms around my neck. “You did. We need to talk to the police first thing tomorrow, but tonight, I want to go home with my husband.”
37
BECCA
Iwake up before I open my eyes, enjoying a peaceful morning without the blaring of an alarm. There’s weight behind me. Warmth. A steady arm draped across my waist like it’s been there all night. It has.
I don’t move right away. Just breathe, enjoying this feeling I wasn’t sure I would ever have again.
The house is quiet, early morning quiet. The kind that feels earned after a long night, which we had. Soft gray light filters through the curtains, washing the room in that muted early-morning glow that makes everything feel slower.
Sam’s hand shifts slightly against my stomach, his thumb brushing once, absentmindedly, like he’s not fully awake but knows exactly where I am. Knows I’m still here.
I press back into him without thinking. His chest rises behind me, a slow inhale, and then?—
“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
A small smile pulls at my mouth. “Morning.”
Neither of us moves to get up. For a long time, mornings were rushed. Work. Money. What’s next, what’s due, whatwe need to fix. That’s not gone. It’ll come back, it always does.
But right now … I’m not thinking about any of it. I’m just here, present. And for once, that feels like enough.
His arm tightens slightly, pulling me closer, and I let him. My fingers slide over his forearm, tracing the familiar lines like I’m reminding myself this is real. Last night wasn’t just … adrenaline, or fear.
“So,” he says quietly behind me, “I’m here, not actually dreaming.”
I huff a soft laugh. “That sounds like you’re surprised.”
“I’m cautious,” he says. “Big difference.” I turn slowly in his arms, facing him.
He’s watching me already. No hesitation or guarded looks. It hits me how different that feels from how we have been these last months.
The adrenaline from the last two days lingers faintly under my skin, but here in our bed, wrapped in Sam’s warmth, it finally starts to loosen its grip. Yesterday flashes through my mind. From the police station to showing them the footage. The way the officer paused the screen and looked at us as if it was already decided. The officer was impressed by our clear documentation and timeline of events.
I wasn’t reacting to something after it broke, after circumstances left my control, like they so often did from my childhood. I prevented it from occurring, using those hard lessons.
My mom used to tell me that we couldn't plan for what we couldn't afford to think about. She wasn't wrong, especially for her life. But I learned something different; that preparing is the only thing that makes surviving feel like living.
The police officer said they had enough to issue an arrest warrant and joked that he wished every case were so well documented. They thanked us for our time and said they would keep us posted, meaning Rick is still at large.
We were cautioned to file a restraining order. We did for ourselves and encouraged Holly as well, just in case.
Sam’s hand comes up, brushing a piece of hair away from my face. His fingers linger, just for a second longer than necessary.
“You good?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah.” And I mean it.
Not in a forced way. Not in a “I’ll deal with it later” way, which is my normal mode.
His gaze drops briefly, then comes back to mine. I can feel the shift in him, the pull. The same pull I feel. We’re closer now and not just physically.
I let my hand drift to his chest, resting there and feeling his heartbeat under my palm.
“This feels different.”
