“It can wait.”
“It might be about my door.”
She’s right. Of course, she’s right. I grit my teeth, tap the screen at the next long light. It’s a text from my handyman.
Locks changed. Reinforced strike plate and deadbolt. 3 inch screws. I exhale through my nose. Something unclenches a fraction.
Keys in white envelope taped inside the fire extinguisher cabinet by her door. Tell her to keep them separate. Don’t lose.
“It’s done,” I manage to grit out. Glad it’s done. Unhappy that she’s already going back. My fantasies for this weekend are up in flames. “Locksmith reinforced everything.”
She closes her eyes for a sec like she’s collecting herself.
“Gracias.” It’s strained, common courtesy, and not heartfelt. “Did he say anything else? About the frame? The door?”
I hear the worry in her questions. I heard it last night when we discovered what her ex did, the break-in, the way he moved through her space like it still belonged to him. My hands curl tighter on the wheel.
“Frame’s solid,” I tell her, keeping it to straight facts. “He replaced the strike and added three-inch screws into the studs. He’d have to really want to get in now.”
She flinches at that, just a little. My mouth snaps shut. Wrong words. I want to kick myself.
“I mean, he’d make a lot of noise. Cops would be called before he ever made it through.”
“It’s fine,” she says quickly. “It’s okay.”
But it’s not.
Not to me.
We turn onto her street. The Koenigsegg looks stupid here. Too low, too sleek, too rich between the cracked asphalt and dented sedans. People stare as we pass. A couple of guys on a stoop, a woman dragging a laundry basket, some kid with a basketball under his arm. I slow down even more. Scan the row of buildings. Everything looks normal. No sign of him, at least.
“Fourth building down, on the left,” she says, pointing as if I hadn’t been here enough times to know exactly which one is hers. Been inside just yesterday, but I let her guide me anyway. Makes her feel like she’s directing something. Like, I’m not in control of every variable I can grab.
I pull up to the curb, kill the engine. Silence inside the cabin feels heavier than the engine noise.
“I’ll walk you up,” I say automatically.
“Massi—”
“I’m not staying,” I cut in, trying not to sound as raw as I feel. “Just carrying your stuff. Getting you the keys. That’s it.”
Her lips press together. She looks at the building. Back at me. Something in her face softens, but only a little.
“Okay, but just that. No more.”
It’s stupid, how relieved that small concession makes me.
I pop my door, climb out, then circle around to her side. She gets out before I make it there, Paco tucked against her chest. She looks small. Not in her curves. In the way she holds herself. More vulnerable and definitely defenseless.
I grab her bag from the back, his little bed, and the extra bag of random shit she brought over with her, expecting a longer stay. Feels wrong, walking her to the door instead of back to my room.
She’s on the first floor. I hate it. Too accessible and, in her case, too many entry points. I should have had the locksmith reinforce the patio doors. I didn’t think about it. Fuck me.
The entryway smells like old cooking and bleach. Her door sits halfway down. Fresh metal gleams dully where the deadbolt is. My blood spikes just looking at them.
“Fire extinguisher cabinet,” I mutter, shifting the bags to one arm. The red metal box sits on the wall to the right of her door. I tug it open. Yep. White envelope taped inside. I peel it off and hold it out. She takes it like it’s something fragile. Tears the top carefully, pulls out two shiny new keys on a cheap key ring.
Her throat moves when she swallows.
