I want to say something brave. Something clean. What comes out is the truth.
“I know what it’s like,” I say quietly. “To be… managed. By someone else’s moods.”
His eyes sharpen, not with judgment. With understanding.
I twist my mug between my hands. Heat against my palms. Something to hold.
“My college nickname was Nerdy Nadia,” I say, trying to make it light and failing. “I was the one who did all the group work and smoothed over fights during project meetings. If there was a bake sale, I organized it. If there was a schedule, I color-coded it.” My mouth twists. “I read a room and I adjust to what people need.”
“That’s not a flaw,” he says.
“It can be,” I admit. “If you don’t know who you are without it.” I force a breath. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make this a therapy session.”
“You didn’t,” Saint says.
He says it like a fact.
Like I’m not too much.
Like my words aren’t inconvenient.
The warmth in my chest shifts into something more complicated.
He pushes back from the table and stands. Even that movement has control. Like his body was trained to take up space and never apologize for it.
“You should rest a bit,” he says. “You’ve been through a lot. Take a nap. Ghost will call when the roads are clear. We’ll get you to Ava.”
My first instinct is to argue. My second is to remember every time I tried to argue with the wrong man and paid for it. The instincts don’t separate cleanly. They tangle.
This isn’t him. I know that.
My body takes time to believe it.
I nod anyway. “Okay. I think I will.”
“Take the bedroom.”
“What will you do?” I ask, because the idea of him pacing out here alone makes my stomach tighten.
“Make plans,” he says. “Strategize.”
I gather my things and head for the bedroom. It’s small, but clean. A heavy quilt folded at the foot of the bed. Fresh linens stacked neatly like someone came through recently and decided this place should feel like safety, not a bunker.
I close the door and sit on the edge of the mattress.
The morning rushes back in fragments. Miles of highway. The hum of the engine. Headlights in my rearview. The bang on my window. The way Saint stepped in like a wall and the world shifted around him.
I’ve been driving for hours since dawn. Now that I’m still, the weight of it all catches up.
My hands still tremble, just slower now.
I’ve spent my whole life trying to make myself smaller. Quieter. Easier.
With Saint, I don’t have to perform.
I just have to exist.
It’s a strange relief.
