“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
Boone’s jaw tightens. “Don’t apologize for protecting yourself.”
Silas hates it, but nods anyway.
“Fine,” he agrees. “Professional.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Delaney
Sayingprofessionalout loud was one thing. Sitting in a cabin with three men who now feel like they’re orbiting me at different distances is something else entirely.
The place is small. Smaller than it looked when we first arrived. The walls seem closer now, the ceilings lower. Every footstep echoes. Every door opening feels overwhelming. There is nowhere to disappear to without it being noticeable.
I didn’t realize how much I relied on movement, on cooking, cleaning, filling space, until suddenly I’m trying very hard not to.
We eat simple food that Silas throws together. Pasta. Jarred sauce. Bread that isn’t sad, but isn’t magic either. I offer to help and then stop myself halfway to the counter, remembering the line I drew like a chalk boundary.
Professional.
Clear.
Silas chatters more than usual, but it’s forced. Like he’s talking around us instead of to us. Boone responds with short, efficient sentences, eyes on his plate. Caleb is quieter than all of them, which is saying a lot.
I feel like a bruise everyone keeps accidentally pressing.
After dinner, Boone announces he’s going to take a walk before it gets too dark. He doesn’t ask if anyone wants to join him. Silas offers to clean up, then changes his mind and says he’ll grab firewood instead.
That leaves me alone in the kitchen.
With Caleb.
The silence stretches. Not awkward, exactly. Heavy. Charged. A held breath that’s gone on too long.
I rinse my plate, the sound of running water giving me something to focus on besides the way Caleb is leaning against the counter behind me, arms folded.
“I’m sorry,” I say suddenly.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t rush to answer.
“For before,” I add. “For… pushing you away. I didn’t realize I was doing it at first. And then I did, and I kept doing it anyway.”
The water keeps running. My hands tremble a little as I stack the plate in the rack.
Caleb exhales, slow and even. “You don’t owe me an apology.”
I shake my head. “I do.”
I turn the faucet off and face him, forcing myself to stay still instead of pacing like I want to.
“You showed up for me,” I continue. “When I was falling apart. You sat with me. You didn’t ask for anything. And then I treated you like… like proximity was dangerous.”
He watches me carefully now, dark eyes still, no accusation in them.
“I figured you were scared,” he says.
The simplicity of it cracks open my chest.
