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I tell myself it's protection. That whatever I'm feeling doesn't matter next to the very real danger circling this cabin, next to the secret I still haven't told her, next to everything my life would put at risk if I let this go any further.

But sitting alone in a cabin that already feels less lonely with her in it, I know the truth is simpler and harder to admit. I'm not protecting her from the danger outside these walls.

I'm protecting myself from exactly what I'm starting to feel.

9

ZOEY

Iwake to a sound that doesn't belong in the cabin at two in the morning, a soft scrape against the back window that could be a branch except there's no wind tonight, no storm rattling the glass the way there was the last time I convinced myself it was nothing.

I lie still, heart already climbing, and listen. There it is again, slower this time, deliberate. Not a branch. Not an animal. Someone testing the window latch from outside.

I don't scream. I don't move at all, actually, frozen the way I used to freeze backstage in the seconds before I understood what was happening, except this time some small, steadier part of me remembers what Kellan taught me. Assess before you react. I slide out of bed as quietly as I can and cross the hall to the guest room.

He's already awake when I push the door open, sitting up in the dark like he heard something too, and I don't even get the sentence out before he's moving.

"Someone's at the back window," I whisper. "I heard the latch."

He's up and past me before I finish, moving through the dark cabin without a single wasted motion, and I follow close behind because staying alone in my room feels far more dangerous than staying near him. Through the kitchen window I catch a shape at the edge of the yard, a shadow breaking away from the house and moving fast toward the tree line the second Kellan steps out onto the back porch.

"Stay inside," he says, low and absolute, already moving off the steps. "Lock the door behind me."

I don't want to. Every instinct says staying close to him is safer than being alone in a cabin someone just tried to break into. But I do what he says, sliding the deadbolt home with shaking hands, and press myself against the wall beside the window to watch.

He's fast, faster than I expect, closing the distance toward the tree line in seconds, and then both shapes disappear into the dark and I lose sight of everything except the sound of branches snapping somewhere out past the yard. I count my own heartbeats to keep from spiraling, one after another, waiting for a sound that tells me he's safe.

It feels like an hour before he comes back into view, though it's probably only minutes, and by the time he reaches the porch steps I've already got the deadbolt open and I'm pulling him inside before he can even say anything.

"Are you hurt?" My hands move over his arms without asking permission, checking for injuries I can't see in the dark kitchen. "Did you catch him? Did he hurt you?"

"I'm fine. He ran the second he heard the door open, had too much of a head start by the time I made the tree line." Kellan catches my hands, stilling them gently against his chest. "I'm okay, Zoey."

I realize I'm shaking, whole body trembling and I can't seem to stop, and it isn't until he pulls me against him that I understand how close I came to losing whatever composure I had left. He doesn't say anything, just holds me there in the dark kitchen, one hand steady against my back, and I let myself fall apart for exactly as long as it takes to remember how to breathe normally again.

"I can't keep doing this alone," I say eventually, muffled against his shirt. "I thought I could handle it. I thought if I just learned enough, prepared enough, I could manage whatever this is. But someone was right outside my window tonight, and I have never in my life felt that helpless, not even the night of the attack."

"You're not alone. You haven't been alone since the day I found those tire tracks."

"I know. But I need you to actually stay. Not just watching from the guest room, not just showing up when something goes wrong. I need to know you're here, fully, until this is over. Please."

"I'm already staying."

"I mean more than that." My voice steadies as I say it, certainty replacing the shaking fear from a few minutes ago. "I mean I don't want to keep pretending there isn't something happening between us just because it's inconvenient or dangerous or complicated. I've spent my whole adult life keeping people at arm's length because I couldn't tell who wanted me and who wanted what I represent. I don't have that problem with you. I've never had that problem with you."

He goes very still, something raw moving behind his expression that he usually keeps locked down tight. "You don't know everything about me. There are things I haven't told you, things that would change how you see all of this."

"Then tell me. Whenever you're ready. I'm not going anywhere." I press my palm flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath it. "Tonight proved I can't do this without you. I don't want to do this without you. That's not the fear talking, Kellan. That's just true."

He doesn't kiss me, not yet, not with adrenaline still running high and a stranger somewhere out in the dark woods beyond the cabin. But he pulls me back against him, tighter this time, and presses his mouth briefly to the top of my head in a gesture that feels more intimate than any kiss could right now.

"I'm not going anywhere either," he says quietly. "Whatever this is, whatever it costs, I'm not walking away from it. Not from you."

We stay like that in the dark kitchen until the adrenaline finally drains out of both of us, until my shaking stops and his grip loosens from the protective tightness it held during those first frightened minutes. When we finally move, it's together, checking every lock in the cabin twice, resetting the small alarm system he installed after the break-in, making sure every possible entry point is secure before either of us considers trying to sleep again.

He doesn't go back to the guest room that night. I don't ask him to, and he doesn't offer. We end up on the couch together, him upright with his back against the armrest and me curled against his side, his arm around me steady and warm while the fire burns low in the hearth. Neither of us sleeps much. But I don't lie awake straining to hear every sound in the dark.

I just listen to him breathe, and let myself believe, for tonight at least, that I'm actually safe.