He studied her a long moment. “You realize most people would’ve moved six months ago.”
She shrugged. “Most people don’t feel called to stay.”
“You’re either incredibly brave . . . or a saint.”
A flicker of discomfort crossed her face. She looked away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, her breath catching faintly in the cold air.
“I’m not a saint, Luke.” Her voice was quiet, but something raw edged beneath it.
He waited—didn’t push, just held the silence open for her.
She exhaled slowly. “Isaac . . . the guy I used to date . . . he struggled. More than people knew. More thanIknew for far too long.” Her gaze drifted toward the snow-dusted sidewalk. “He hid things from me. Real things. Scary things. And when I finally realized how bad it was, I didn’t handle it well.”
Luke’s chest tightened. “You tried to help him?”
“Not enough.” Her voice cracked at the edges. “I thought loving someone meant giving them space. Grace. Patience. I didn’t understand that sometimes love has to be firmer than that.” She looked up at him then, eyes shining with a truth she’d carried too long. “I should have seen the signs sooner. I should have pushed him harder to get help. Instead, I let him talk me out of my instincts, because I wanted to believe the version of himself he showed me.”
She pressed a hand to her coat, as if steadying something inside. “When he died . . . it wasn’t just losing him that I wrestled with. It was realizing I’d been watching him walk toward something that was going to destroy him—and I didn’t stop him.”
A brittle breath left her. “So, no. I’m not a saint. I’m someone who learned the hard way that you can’t love someone enough to save them. And sometimes it means admitting you failed them.”
Luke felt the words settle into him—heavy, aching, whole.
He’d seen grief before, but this was something more. Guilt. Regret. A heart that had learned to speak softly because it had once spoken too late.
His throat tightened. “Amayah . . . that isn’t failure.”
But even as he said it, he sensed she wasn’t ready to hear those words yet.
“Anyway, moving on . . .” She shifted, making it clear she wanted to change the subject.
Luke licked his lips, not wanting to push too hard—though, more than anything, he wanted to keep talking about this. He wanted Amayah to see the truth instead of guilt.
But maybe now wasn’t the time. He needed to respect her wishes of moving on.
Instead, he asked, “What are you going to do about the Crumps?”
She let out a long breath before saying, “Nothing I can’t justify. Not yet. I can’t accuse a woman of neglecting her children without proof. But until I know the truth, I’ll help the only way I can.”
“And that is?”
“I’ll feed them. Clothe them. Love them. And make sure someone sees them.”
Something heavy tightened in his chest. “And if things get worse?”
Her gaze lifted, fierce and protective. “Then I won’t look away.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty.
It was full of unspoken fear . . . and the beginning of a resolve neither of them could fully name yet.
Luke’s apartment felt colder than usual when he arrived home that night.
Harry was out doing some kind of Christmas crawl with some friends from his indoor soccer league.
It was just as well. Luke could use some time to himself.
He dropped his keys onto the counter and ran a hand through his hair, the quiet settling around him like an unwelcome weight. The radiator clicked softly, attempting warmth, but it did nothing to loosen the tension coiled beneath his ribs.
