“I’m scared, Nate,” I said, voice shaking. “Not just for you. For Tilly. For what he might do if he really wants to hurt me.”
He exhaled, pressing a kiss to the back of my hand. “I hate that he has you this twisted up.”
“I just… I need some space. I need to think.”
Nate nodded slowly, but I could see the hurt flicker in his eyes.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll give you space. But I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you tell me you don’t want me.”
“I don’t want you to go away,” I said quietly. “But I don’t know how to do this right.”
His smile was sad and soft. “We’ll figure it out.”
Tears pricked my eyes. I kissed his cheek, then stood up and gathered my robe.
“I’m going to make some tea.”
I slipped into my robe and wandered into the kitchen. For a moment, I hovered in the soft spill of light from the stove, listening to the quiet house and my own frantic heartbeat. The silence between us stretched, not awkward, but heavy with everything we’d said. I wanted to tell him I was grateful. That his patience was the only thing keeping me from unravelingcompletely. But the words caught in my throat, tangled up with fear and longing.
Steam curled from my mug like a ghost I couldn’t shake. I stood there holding it with both hands, barefoot on the cold kitchen tile, pretending the warmth was enough to steady me. It wasn’t.
Behind me, I heard the soft rustle of blankets, then footsteps—slow, hesitant. Nate had gotten dressed in the dim light of my bedroom, and when he stepped into the doorway, he looked undone. Hair mussed, hoodie half-zipped, eyes soft with worry and something else. Something raw.
“Eliza,” he said gently.
I couldn’t look at him.
“I couldn’t stay in your bed. Not without you there. I don’t want this to end. I don’t want a break or space or—damn it. I can’t tell you what you need, and I won’t try to force you to change your mind.”
That almost broke me right there.
He walked farther into the kitchen, stopping when he was close enough to touch but far enough that I’d have to move toward him. It was such a Nate thing—an invitation without pressure. A door held open.
“Will you talk to me?” he asked softly.
I stared down at my tea. “I don’t know if I can.” My throat felt tight, my voice unfamiliar. “Everything feels too big. Too fast. Too much. And I’m so worried that Graham is going to—I don’t know—do something to ruin it.”
His brows pulled together with worry. “If this is about us, Eliza, we don’t have to rush anything. I meant what I said. We can slow down. We can?—”
“It’s not that,” I whispered.
“Then what is it?”
“I…” My breath shook. “I don’t know how to do this.”
He didn’t move, didn’t crowd me. But I could feel him, warm and patient and steady in the doorway.
“Eliza,” he murmured, “talk to me.”
So I tried.
“I’m scared,” I said. “There. That’s the ugly truth. I’m terrified. I came here and hid out. I didn’t deal with any of my feelings, and now I’m in a whirlwind, and I don’t know what to do.”
He stepped closer, just one careful stride. “What scares you the most?” he asked.
“Graham,” I whispered. “Of what he might do. What he could do. He’s angry, and I know how he gets when he’s angry. Manipulative. Cruel. And he’s not subtle about who he blames for anything.” My chest tightened painfully. “I think he’ll go after you. And the diner. You could lose everything, and it would be my fault.”
His breath caught. “Eliza?—”
