“I’ve got you,” he says, so softly it’s barely a breath.
And I believe him.
He doesn’t rush. He never does. He whispers sweet things into my hair. Kisses my temple. Lets me take my time coming back to myself. He even brings a warm washcloth, gentle and quiet as he cleans between my thighs. His touch is reverent, careful.
At one point, I feel my eyes sting. Not from pain. Not from sadness. Just the overwhelming safety of it all.
“Hey,” he whispers when he notices. He tilts my face toward his, thumbs brushing the corners of my eyes. “Too much?”
“No,” I whisper. “Just… full. In every way.”
A slow smile spreads across his face, and he kisses me again—long, lingering.
Then he says the words that break me in the softest way possible:
“I’m proud of you.”
And that’s when the tears fall for real. Not from fear. From being seen. Loved. Held exactly right.
We stay there on the couch until my breathing steadies, wrapped in each other and quiet warmth. And when he carries me to bed a little while later, his arms never once let go.
Chapter thirty
Elijah
She’sstillasleepwhenI wake.
The early morning light spills through the window, golden and soft, and it turns her skin into something glowing. One arm’s curled under her pillow. The other is draped across my chest like it belongs there. Because it does.
I watch her for a moment, this woman I’ve come to care for in ways I never expected—deep, protective, consuming. She trusts me with so much. And last night? That was more than physical. That was her handing me the most vulnerable pieces of herself and sayinghere, I trust you to hold them.
God, I hope she knows I’ll never drop them.
Her nose scrunches a little in her sleep. Probably dreaming. She’s beautiful when she’s like this—unguarded and peaceful. A contrast to the guarded tension she sometimes still carries, like the world might ask too much of her at any second.
I smooth her hair back from her face and kiss her temple, careful not to wake her.
Last night, when George showed up at the shop uninvited, I saw that shadow in her eyes. That pull to be polite, to be quiet, to disappear. And then I saw how fast she texted me. How much trust that took.
She doesn’t even know how strong she is.
I slide out of bed without disturbing her and pad quietly into the kitchen to start the kettle. Coffee first, always. She’ll wake soon, and I want the house to smell like something warm and familiar. Like safety. Like home.
Because she’s made this place feel like home to me too.
***
The buzz of the machine hums low in the background, but I’m not working on anyone at the moment. The studio’s mostly quiet—just the scent of ink and antiseptic, the low thrum of music vibrating through the floorboards. My hands are still, but my mind isn’t.
The shop smells like ink and disinfectant, same as always, but today there’s this edge in the air I can’t shake.
I’ve had this itch since George showed up at Ava’s store. I didn’t make a scene—not in front of her, not in public—but I saw her face. Her body language. The way she froze.
And the thing is—she didn’t lookscared. She looked like she was remembering something that hurt.
“Yo,” Asher calls out from the back, wiping his own hands on a towel. “You’re in your head again.”
“George,” I say, leaning on the counter. “Ava’s ex.”
