He emerges from the house, striding across the yard with purpose. The porch light catches his face for a split second—hard, set, unreadable—before he reaches the car.
“Come here,” he mutters, and before I can even move, he’s lifting me into his arms.
The world tilts around me. My cheek presses to his chest, where his heart beats steady, brutal, certain. The tears return, hot against my skin.
He carries me inside like I’m weightless. Like the weight of grief and rage and ruin I feel is easy for him to carry.
He places me gently on the sofa, then moves away. I hear theshuffle of a blanket being pulled from the back of a chair. A moment later, it’s wrapped around me, his hands tucking it in with a care that makes my chest ache harder.
“Stay put,” he orders softly. Then his footsteps retreat upstairs.
I curl into the blanket, my knees to my chest, the scent of him clinging to the fabric. Cedarwood and smoke.
When he returns, he’s carrying a folded set of pajamas. He kneels in front of me, places them in my lap.
“Change,” he says. Not harsh, not demanding—like he can’t stand the sight of me sitting here in uncomfortable clothes.
My fingers tremble as I reach for them, they’re so numb I can barely work the buttons on the pajama top. Jacob watches, crouched low, his arms resting on his knees, but he doesn’t move to help. He’s giving me space. He’s letting me ask for help before he intervenes.
When I finally fumble the last button, he stands and leaves the room. It’s the kind of courtesy I wouldn’t expect from him, the kind that makes my throat close. I slip out of my old clothes, the fabric heavy with the smell of hospital antiseptic, and slide into the soft cotton of the pajamas. They’re much too big for me, hanging loose at the wrists and ankles, and that’s how I know they’re his.
When I whisper, “I’m done,” he re-enters the room.
Without a word, he gathers the discarded clothes into his fist and sets them aside, like he can erase the night with the sweep of his hand.
“Relax,” he murmurs.
I want to laugh at the word. Relax. When my parents are dead. When the boy I thought might save me turned out to be nothing but another lie. When Jacob himself—this towering, merciless man that I spent years running from— is my safety, and the man I’m falling so hopelessly and desperately in love with after all.
But I don’t laugh—I just let out a shaking breath as stands.
He heads toward the door and disappears into the kitchen. I hear him rummaging through drawers, opening and closing one at a time.
“Where the fuck is it?” he mutters under his breath, voice low but edged with frustration.
Despite everything—despite the tension coiling through my chest—I almost laugh. For all his control, all his darkness, he’s still a man. A stubborn, impossible man who can stare down killers without flinching but can’t find whatever it is he’s looking for without tearing the house apart.
He returns with my pink hairbrush clutched in his hand. It looks absurd in his scarred grip. He climbs over me and sits behind me on the sofa, shifting me between his knees.
“Head forward,” he orders.
My muscles resist, but I obey, letting my head bow. The first drag of bristles through my hair makes me gasp. It hurts. He’s not careful enough, not practiced. But every time the brush catches a knot, he slows. He tries.
It’s a strange kind of tenderness—this brutal man, this sheriff who bleeds violence, sitting here with a hairbrush and untangling me piece by piece.
I close my eyes. The brush pulls, then eases, then pulls again. The rhythm is hypnotic. And slowly, the trembling in my hands begins to fade. When he’s finished, he sets the brush down, his fingers brushing the back of my neck. My skin erupts in goosebumps.
I lean my head back without thinking, resting it against his chest. He exhales, rough, like the air is burning on its way out. His lips press to the crown of my head—just a graze—and then lower to my temple, then my cheek.
I turn my body to face him and climb to straddle him on the sofa. I press my lips to his and kiss him. I expect his return to be fierce and claiming, but he’s softer than I expect. Like he’s fighting his own nature to give me something he doesn’t even know he has inside him.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. “I know you hate me,” he whispers. “Because I left you. Because I wasn’t here when?—”
“Stop.” My voice is ragged. I bury my face against his neck, inhaling smoke and pine and him. “I don’t hate you,” I whisper into his skin. “I just never understood why you left without telling me.”
His arms tighten around me, crushing, like he’s trying to fuse me into him.
“But I know now, you didn’t know they were gone. You rushedoff to save them. Because that’s who you are. You’re the savior, the protector. You look after this town and care for everyone—well, most—people in it,” I say, tears soaking into his shirt. “And you’ve always been my safety. I just didn’t see it before.”
