“What if he doesn’t stop?”she asks quietly.“Restraining orders are paper.He likes flames.”
My jaw clenches.“He doesn’t stop?”I say.“Then we make him.Legally.Loudly.With every tool available.My fists are the last resort, not the first.”
Her gaze softens.“That’s the answer I needed,” she murmurs.
We drive out to what’s left of her house in the afternoon because she asks to.
It’s mostly ash and twisted metal now, the shell of a life that should’ve been safe.The smell hits hard.I stay close without crowding, ready to pull her back if her mind drags her under.
It doesn’t.
She walks the perimeter slowly, taking in what remains.At one point she crouches, reaching into debris and pulling out something small and blackened.
A metal dragon.The stupid lamp base.Her mouth wobbles and I crouch beside her.We don’t speak for a while.There’s nothing to say that doesn’t sound like a greeting card or a lie.
Finally, she stands and lets the charred dragon go.
“Home isn’t here anymore,” she whispers.“And that’s okay.”
Lightning flickers far off and thunder answers.
We barely make it home before the storm breaks.Sheets of rain hammer rooftops.Wind howls.The weather radio chatters in the background while Aunt Dee mutters about power outages and candles.
The irony isn’t lost on any of us, fire victim now trapped in a house during a storm.
Olivia sits cross-legged on the couch in one of my hoodies, hair up, glasses sliding down her nose while she sorts through donated books Aunt Dee bullied the entire town into giving her.
“This community is ridiculous,” she says, overwhelmed and fond.
“Kidds Beach,” I reply, “population nosy.”
She smiles.Then her phone rings again.Unknown number.The storm outside crackles and we look at each other.
She nods once and answers on speaker.
“Olivia Reed,” she says, strong and clear.
There’s no oily breath this time.No smugness.Just silence.Then a click as the call disconnects.We stare at the phone.My muscles coil, ready for a fight that isn’t here yet.
“If he’s trying to scare me,” she says calmly, “it’s not working the way it used to.”
I believe every word.
She turns the phone off, sets it aside, and then crawls into my lap like that’s the most natural action in the world.My hands go automatically to her hips, her warmth sinking into me until my heartbeat finds a new rhythm.
“I don’t want him to be the last thing we talk about tonight,” she murmurs against my throat.
“He won’t be.”
“What do you want to talk about then?”
“Us,” I say.“Tomorrow.Next month.Next year.”
She freezes.“That far?”
“Yeah,” I answer simply.“Unless you plan on getting tired of me.”
She huffs.“Unlikely.”
