“Then you’d better hurry, little fire. Wouldn’t want you to lose the freedom you’re finally earning.”
He steps back. And part of me hates that he does. Part of me doesn’t want him to let me walk away. But he’s right. Graham would let the apartment burn to the ground before letting me stay gone too long.
I push away from the cooler and turn.
“Wait,” he calls.
I pause, hesitating only a second before I glance back over my shoulder.
He’s already raised his camera.
But he doesn’t snap the picture. Not yet.
“Smile, little fire. You’ll see me soon.”
I closethe door gently behind me, letting the quiet settle around me as I press the paper bag to my chest. The rosemary’s scent wafts up—sharp and clean—and I try to focuson that instead of the lingering chill of the freezer aisle. Instead of the image of Finn’s camera aimed at my face and the possessive glint in his eyes when he saw the mark on my neck.
But I’m not shaking.
That has to count for something, right?
I toe off my shoes, heading toward the kitchen, acting normal. Like I didn’t just get cornered by a man who makes my heart flutter and twist in equal measure.
Graham is at the stove, his broad back to me. The sleeves of his Henley are pushed up, revealing strong forearms, and the oven’s gentle heat gives the kitchen a golden glow.
“I’ve got it,” I call softly, holding up the bag.
He turns immediately—eyes sweeping over me, assessing. Not suspicious. Just thorough. It's his nature.
“You’re back in one piece,” he says, relief threading through his voice even though it’s understated.
I smile, trying to keep it easy. “Told you. I’ve survived a lot worse than the produce store.”
He meets me halfway, reaching for the bag—but as his fingers brush mine, I see the shift.
His nostrils flare.
He stills.
His eyes lift to mine.
There’s no anger there.
Just a sudden, quiet intensity.
“Willow…” he says, low. “He was there.”
I hesitate. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t speak for a moment, and I wait for the edge—expecting the firm line of his jaw to harden, his protective instinct to rise the way it always does.
But it doesn’t.
Instead, Graham exhales slowly. He sets the bag on thecounter, then steps close again, brushing his knuckles down my arm.
“Are you okay?”
His voice is rough, but the question is real.
