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He should never have given her space.
Should never have let her drive away the other evening.
Instead, he’d done something he rarely did — shut the rest of the world out and buried himself in work. With a lull between carpentry jobs for Fischer Construction, he focused on Gertrude, losing time to hammer and nail, to the steady rhythm of restoring something precious, something predictable. Something he could fix.
Something that made sense.
Unlike Felicity.
He rounded the corner—
And there she was, hefting a box into the back of the Bronco.
Because she was fucking moving.
He’d only found out by accident — Nate’s offhand comment when Ronan pulled onto the new worksite that morning.
“Figured you’d be helping your girl move today.”
Ronan had frowned. “Who’s moving?”
“Deputy Graham.”
“The hell?”
Nate had blinked at him. “You been living off-grid the last few days?”
“What about Felicity moving?”
And that was when Nate explained. Ms. Harmon’s death. The house. The dogs.
Ronan’s jaw tightened as he watched her slide the box into place and reach for another. She hadn’t called. Hadn’t told him. Hadn’t given him the chance to show up. To shoulder even a fraction of it. To stand beside her. To matter.
To be her friend.
He closed the distance fast, boots hitting concrete hard.
“You don’t call. Don’t ask for help. What the hell, Felicity?”
She stepped up onto the sidewalk, turning away from him. “Why would I call you?” she shot back, breath misting in the cold. “I’m managing just fine.”
“That’s not the point.”
She spun, eyes flashing. “Then what is?”
“I could’ve been there for you. I could’ve—” He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated beyond belief. “Supported you.”
Her expression hardened, shutters slamming down. “I’ve been on my own since I was seventeen.” Each word was precise. Final. “And I’ve managed just fine.”
She shoved past him, taking the steps in quick strides and disappearing into the foyer.
Ronan followed, catching her arm before she could get further. He turned her back, fast, rough.
She wrenched free instantly and planted her palm flat against his chest, shoving him hard enough that his back hit the wall.
“I don’t need” — her voice shook, but not with weakness. With force. With something barely leashed — “or want anyone helping me.”
Her chest rose and fell with sharp breaths, hands curling into fists at her sides like she was holding herself together by sheer will.
