Page 169 of The Wright Man

I didn't remember falling asleep.

One minute, I was curled up in the passenger seat of Maleek's truck, clutching the last thread of his voice like a lifeline, and the next, the world was... quiet. For the first time in what felt like years.

"Angel..."

His voice pulled me gently from the dark. Low and warm like a prayer, reverent and soft in the space between us.

"Angel, wake up."

A warm breeze grazed my cheek. The passenger door was open, and Maleek was standing in it, tall and steady like a lighthouse, coaxing me gently back into the world.

I blinked awake, my lids heavy and hot. A grief hangover settled into my bones. My limbs felt heavy, filled with sand. I let out a little whine, some small, vulnerable sound I couldn't suppress, and felt his hand squeeze my thigh. Soft, grounding pressure.

"Ang, baby, wake up," he said again. "I brought you home."

Those words yanked me fully into consciousness.

Home.

My heart stuttered. A cold rush moved through my veins.

Home meant Gavin. Home meant the lie. The cheating. Jasmine. The boy.

The truth of Annapolis hit me all at once, sharp and unforgiving, like ice water dumped on my chest.

"No," I gasped, voice hoarse, throat raw from crying, "No, Maleek, I—I can't go home. Not after what he—"

"Shhhh," he cut me off softly, reaching for me with a steady hand and cupping my cheek. His thumb brushed gently across my skin, anchoring me again, reminding me I wasn't alone.

"I didn't say I brought you to your house," he murmured. "I said I brought you home."

I blinked at him, disoriented.

He just held out his hand.

And like I always had—I took it.

The night air kissed my face as I climbed down from his truck, and he steadied me with a hand to my back, fingers warm and secure through the thin fabric of my hoodie. My sneakers hit the pavement and I looked around, still bleary-eyed and confused, until I took in the porch steps in front of me.

We were at Maleek's house.

The one he grew up in. The one I'd spent as much of my childhood in as my own. Dana's house.

But it wasn't exactly the same.

The sage green paint was fresh, rich against the backdrop of the night sky. White trim gleamed in the glow of the porch light. The old chipped railings were gone, replaced with sleek black ones. The wooden stairs and porch had been sanded and stained to a warm pecan that glowed golden under the lights. New. Solid. Intentional.

But that feeling in my chest—that warmth, that safety, that knowing—I'd recognize that anywhere.

That wasn't new. That was Dana. That was Maleek.

That was home.

"What time is it?" I murmured, still sluggish.

"A little before midnight," he said as we made our way up the steps hand in hand. "I probably broke about six traffic laws getting us here, but we made it."

I gave him a weak smile. "Thanks."