Page 30 of Trade It All

The question stays there. Waiting. And I don’t have an answer. Because going with him means Addy. It means her hands on my face, her voice soft, her eyes searching mine for something I won’t be able to hide. It means being seen in a way I’m not readyfor. It means sitting in it, letting it be real, letting it have weight. And I don’t know if I can do that yet. Not when everything still feels like it’s happening too fast. Not when I can still feel Tyler’s hand at my throat if I think about it too long. But going home—My stomach tightens. Just enough that it spreads slowly outward, settling into something colder.

Tyler has a key. To my apartment. To my space. To the one place that’s supposed to be mine. He knows where I am. He knows where I go. He knows how to get in. And the worst part—the part that makes something cold wrap tight around my chest—is how easy it would be for him to be there before I even realized it. Waiting. Angry. Thinking I embarrassed him. Thinking I left him. Thinking I owe him something for that. My lips press together, my teeth catching the inside of them as I try to keep everything from spilling over, from turning into something bigger than I can hold onto.

I don’t have an answer. Not one I can say out loud. Not one that doesn’t sound as bad as it feels. Before I can force something into words, before I can try to make it make sense, Dean’s hands tighten slightly on my shoulders. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to ground.

“She’s coming home with me.” His voice is low. Steady. But it settles into the space between us in a way that doesn’t leave room to question it. “I’ll take care of her,” he continues, his grip stillfirm, still anchoring me where I stand. “If she needs a doc, I’ll handle it.”

I don’t turn to look at him. I don’t need to. I feel it in the way his hands stay on me. In the way he hasn’t stepped back. In the way everything in me has already stopped fighting for somewhere else to go. There’s something about the way he says it that makes everything else go quiet, like the decision already exists whether anyone agrees with it or not.

Luka doesn’t like it. I feel that before I see it, the shift in him sharp enough that it presses into the space between all three of us. It isn’t anger. Not at me. Not even at Dean. It’s something heavier than that. Protective. Unwilling to step back when he doesn’t have to.

“She should come with me,” Luka says, his voice steady, but there’s tension threaded through it now. “I’ve got her.”

My chest tightens at that. Because I know he does. I know exactly what he’s offering without him needing to say anything else, and part of me leans toward it instinctively. Toward the people who have always shown up. Toward the place where I wouldn’t have to think, wouldn’t have to decide anything for myself. But that means stepping into it. Letting it be real. Letting them see it. And I’m not there yet. Not when everything still feels like it’s happening too close to the surface, like one wrong look will make it crack open wider than I can hold together.

Dean doesn’t move. Doesn’t step in front of me. Doesn’t raise his voice. But something in him locks.

“She’s coming with me,” he repeats, quieter this time, but it lands heavier, like it’s already been decided and he’s just stating it out loud.

Luka exhales, slow, controlled, his gaze flicking between us like he’s measuring something he doesn’t fully like. “Coach—”

“I’ll take care of her.” The words cut in. Not sharp. Not aggressive. But final in a way that doesn’t leave room for anything else to be added to it. Silence settles for a second.

Luka studies him, something unspoken passing between them, something that doesn’t need to be said out loud for it to be understood. “If anything changes,” Luka says finally, his voice still tight, still carrying that edge that hasn’t gone anywhere, “you call me.”

“I will.” No hesitation. No pushback. And that’s what does it. Not because Luka agrees. But because he believes him.

His eyes shift to me then, softer now, searching in a way that makes something inside me pull tight. “You call me too.”

I nod, the movement small but certain. “I will.”

He holds my gaze for a second longer, like he’s trying to make sure of something, like he’s deciding if he can walk away from this. Then he does. Reluctantly. Dean’s hand shifts from my shoulder to my back, steady and warm, guiding me forward without rushing, without asking, just… there, keeping me moving when my body still feels like it’s trying to catch up. We reach his truck before I fully realize we’re walking.

He opens the passenger door, his movements efficient, controlled in a way that feels different from the tension sitting underneath them. I climb in without thinking. Without questioning. Because the moment I do, something in me settles just enough to notice it. The space is his. It smells like him. Clean, but not in a way that feels empty. There’s something deeper underneath it. Something warm. Something steady that fills the air in a way that doesn’t overwhelm but doesn’t disappear either.

He leans in, his presence filling the space around me as he reaches across, his arm brushing lightly against mine as he pulls the seatbelt across my body and clicks it into place. The movement is careful. Precise. Like he’s paying attention to every inch of space between us, making sure he doesn’t hurt me without needing to ask where it would. A small sound slips out of me before I can catch it. A soft, breathy laugh that doesn’t match anything about how I should feel right now. My head throbs with it, the movement pulling at the ache that’s settled behind my eyes, but I can’t quite stop it.

“I can buckle myself,” I murmur, my voice quieter now, softer, like it’s still trying to find its way back to normal.

Dean doesn’t answer right away. “Just let me do it,” he mutters, his voice low, rougher now, like it’s pulled tight over something he’s holding in.

The belt settles against me. Secure. He pulls back, closing the door with a solid thud that cuts off the outside world just enough to make the inside feel quieter. Safer. I watch him through the windshield as he rounds the front of the truck. He doesn’t get in right away. He stops. Just for a second. His head tilts back slightly, his gaze lifting toward the sky like he’s looking for something there, like he needs a moment before stepping back into everything waiting inside the cab. Like he’s making sure he has himself under control before he gets behind the wheel. Before he gets back to me.

He drops his gaze, moves again, and pulls the driver’s door open. The truck shifts slightly as he climbs in, the space filling with him again in a way that feels immediate. Solid. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at me right away. He just starts the engine and pulls us out into the night, the city lights stretching out in front of us as we leave everything behind.

Chapter 12

Dean

Thedoorshuts,andthe world narrows to the space inside the truck. Not quiet. Not calm. Just contained—everything pressed inward instead of bleeding out. The engine turns over beneath my hand, the vibration steady, familiar. Something I’ve relied on a thousand times to keep my focus where it needs to be. Forward. Controlled. Moving.

But tonight it doesn’t reach far enough. Because everything that matters is sitting beside me. I don’t look at her. I don’t trust what will happen if I do.

It’s already there, sitting just under my skin in a way that doesn’t rise or fall the way anger is supposed to. It doesn’t burn out. It doesn’t spike and give me something to work through. It stays. Low and constant, like something has settled into my bloodstream instead of passing through it, threading itself into every breath I take until there’s no clean edge to it anymore.Every second that passes without turning the truck around pulls it tighter, stretches it thinner, until it feels like it’s wrapped around my ribs, pressing in from the inside.

I don’t have to replay it. I don’t have to reach for it. It’s already there. The way he stood in that doorway like he had control of something that never belonged to him. The mark he left behind like it was something that would fade if enough time passed, like it didn’t mean anything beyond the moment he decided to put it there. My grip tightens on the wheel, the leather shifting under my palm just enough to remind me where I am.

Here. Not upstairs. Not finishing what every part of me is still pushing toward. Because if I let it go where it wants to go—if I turn this truck around and walk back into that apartment—there won’t be anything left of him to explain. And that isn’t what she needs.