Heat floods through me so fast it almost hurts. Relief. Want. A sharp and reckless pang spreads before I can get control of it.
He told me it couldn’t happen. He was firm, leaving no room for argument. I went to bed last night, telling myself that was it, that I would not be the one to push again.
And now here he is, dropping into my DMs when I didn’t even know he had my number, asking me to come over.
Not demanding or apologizing. Just opening the space and letting me know that the door hasn’t closed.
My thumb hovers over the screen, heart beating hard enough that I can feel it in my throat.
I glance around my room and listen to the quiet house. Then I look back at his message. The house is settled now, the kind of stillness that comes late, when everyone believes the night is done making demands.
My father’s weekly Tuesday meeting ran long, but he’s home. He’s locked in his bedroom.
I step into the hallway, careful with my weight, each step placed instead of taken, so I don’t alert him that I’m up and moving around.
I pause outside his door and listen.
The television murmurs faintly through the wood. Itsounds like he’s watching his Peaky Blinders, the show he falls asleep to every night.
Which means he believes I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
Perfect.
I go back to my room and close the door softly without turning on the light. I move on instinct, pulling on jeans and a sweater, slipping my shoes on in my hand instead of my feet.
The mirror catches a glimpse of me as I pass. Flushed. Awake. Already gone.
The back staircase creaks less if you know where to step. I learned that years ago. I take it slowly, counting each footfall, pausing once when the house settles around me.
When I confirm no one is stirring, I slip out of the mudroom door.
The night air hits my face the second I step outside, sharp and clean. I pull my sweater tighter as I cross the drive and unlock my car, the beep-beep loud in the quiet.
I pull away, keeping the lights low until the house disappears behind me.
I park just outside the house, texting Ridge as I step into the unseasonably chilly night. My fingers tremble slightly as I type.
I’m here.
The reply comes almost immediately.
Come through the main house. Door’s unlocked. I’ll meet you in the bunker.
I follow his instructions, slipping into the quiet, mostly dark house. The space feels hollow at this hour. My bootssound too loud against the floor as I move down the hall, each faint creak sharpening my awareness.
The thick metal door at the end of the corridor sits slightly ajar. I pause there, my hand resting against the cool surface before pushing it open.
The bunker smells the same as it did. Clean water, damp soil. Something green and quietly thriving beneath all the concrete. My body registers it before my mind does, the sense memory settling me even as it reminds me where I am.
Ridge stands near the table, his phone in one hand, the other braced against the back of a chair. The overhead light casts a hard line across his shoulders, catching the tension he’s holding there.
His gaze lifts, sharp at first, then softens when he sees me. Just enough to knock the breath loose in my chest.
“I’m glad you came,” he says, voice low.
I nod, stepping closer. “I’m glad you texted me. I was about to write you when it came through.”
His mouth curves slightly. “Is everything okay?”
