I hear it all like noise under water because I’m watching her.She’s exhausted but unbroken.And when we finally step back out into sunlight, she exhales like she’s been underwater for years.
“I want a burger,” she says.
I bark out a laugh.“Yeah?”
“Greasy,” she adds.“Immoral.With cheese that doesn’t legally qualify as cheese.”
“I know a place.”
I take her to a dive where the napkins are translucent, and the lettuce is purely decorative.She eats like a woman reclaiming territory in her own life, making little hums of pleasure that make it stupidly hard to concentrate on anything else.
Her phone buzzes once on the table.Unknown number again.
Every muscle in my body locks.She looks at it, looks at me, and then flips it face down.
“He doesn’t get lunch,” she says lightly.
And I fall harder.
****
The day doesn’t explodethe way I half-expect it to.There is no dramatic movie showdown in the parking lot.No sudden screaming.It’s almost worse—the quiet, the waiting, the storm pressure without the release.
We go back to Aunt Dee’s.
Paperwork fatigue hits Olivia like a wall.She dozes off on the couch, head tipping onto my shoulder without ceremony.I don’t move.I won’t risk waking her.There’s something sacred about the trust of sleep.
Aunt Dee catches my eye from the kitchen, gives me that look again—break her heart and die.I nod.Message received.
Evening settles, golden and slow.Olivia wakes on a breath and looks embarrassed.I kiss her temple before she can apologize for something she doesn’t need to.
Then the knock comes.Not timid.Not hesitant.But three ugly pounds of entitlement.
Every hair on my body stands up and Olivia freezes.
“I’ve got it,” I say softly.
She grabs my wrist.“Don’t...”
“I’ve got it,” I repeat, gentler but firm.“Stay here with Aunt Dee.”
I step onto the porch and close the door behind me so Olivia doesn’t have to see what I already know will be waiting.
Of course it’s him.The ex.The asshole who tried to kill the woman I am already in love with even if I know it is too fast.He’s exactly the type I pictured, average height, average build, wearing resentment like cologne and smugness curdled by fear he won’t name.Blue eyes that catalog weaknesses first.
He looks me up and down, assessing me and finding that he isn’t impressed.Not that I give a flying fuck about his opinion of me.
“The fire boy,” he sneers.
“The asshole ex,” I reply.
“You’ve been answering her phone.”
“No,” I say.“I’ve been ending your access.”
He scoffs.“Cute.Now move the fuck out of my way.”
“No.”The single, simple word falls like lead between us.
