“Almost there,” I say.
She doesn’t answer at first. Then I hear a breathy laugh. The kind that isn’t actually amused.
I keep my eyes on the road. If I look at her right now, I might pull over and hug her until she stops shaking. That isn’t safe. So I keep driving.
“You didn’t know. We didn’t know. The only one I’m judging right now is Talon.”
Her breath hitches at his name. I file that away. Anger, hurt, guilt, probably all of it mixed together.
My hands tighten again on the wheel.
Talon.
The kid who used to sit on my shoulders at the beach and throw sand at everyone else. The teenager I taught to drive even though Abi didn’t want him touching a car. The young man who now has had his hands on the same woman I’m falling for and thinks that gives him the right to leverage her secrets.
I want to put my fist through a wall. Or his face. I want to yank him out of that house and shake him until the smug teenage bravado cracks and he understands what consent actually looks like.
Instead, I breathe and drive and keep my voice calm.
“You’re not alone in this,” I say, which is really just another way of promising myself that I’m not walking away.
No one says much after that.
Her apartment complex finally comes into view. I pull into her usual spot and kill the engine. For a second, none of us moves. The silence stretches. Then Penelope sighs and reaches for the door handle with hands that aren’t entirely steady.
“I’ll walk you up,” I say.
“I’m fine,” she lies.
“You’re wearing heels,” I say. “And you nearly passed out in a room full of people who think this was a nice evening. Humor me.”
She hesitates, then nods and opens the door.
Gideon gets out too. That was never in question. He falls into step on her other side as we walk up the path, flanking her. Protective is too soft a word for how it feels. I’m not sure there is one that fits.
She fishes her keys out of her tiny bag and fumbles with the lock. I take them gently, turn the key, and swing the door open.
Her apartment smells like vanilla, coffee, and something that might be strawberry shampoo. Soft light spills from a small lamp in the corner. A mug sits on the coffee table with a lipstick ring on the rim. There’s a blanket thrown across the back of the couch like she left in a hurry the last time.
Home.
I feel some of the tension in my shoulders ease just from stepping inside.
“Shoes,” Gideon says softly.
She leans on the wall while I crouch and unbuckle the straps of her heels. Her ankle is warm under my hand. Her toes curl slightly on the floor when I slide the shoes off. I line them up near the door because it gives my hands something to do that isn’t pulling her into my arms and promising her things I have no right to promise…yet.
She laughs. “Thank you, Cinderella.”
“Wrong fairy tale,” I say. “Come on.”
Gideon glances toward the couch. “Bed,” he decides. “You need to sleep. You can freak out more tomorrow when your brain isn’t fried.”
She groans. “Don’t talk about my brain like it’s an overcooked egg.”
He smiles. “Then go save it.”
We walk her down the short hallway to her bedroom. The bed is made, which doesn’t surprise me. Penelope likes order, even when she pretends she doesn’t.
