Now, sitting on the porch in the late afternoon, wrapped in a worn ranch jacket that smelled like hay and leather and Liam, watching the pasture glow gold under the setting sun, I knew what I had to do.
The air was perfect—that sweet spot between day's heat and evening's cool, when the light turned everything magical. Somewhere in the distance, cattle were lowing, and the oak trees whispered secrets to each other in the breeze. This place had healed me, saved me, shown me what life could be. Now I had to fight for the right to keep it.
"Lee," I said quietly, watching Poet graze in the distance, her tail swishing lazily at flies. "I need to talk to you about something."
His body went rigid beside me, that instantaneous tension that came whenever I started a serious conversation now. Like he was bracing for impact, waiting for me to fall apart or disappear. His hand found mine immediately, fingers interlacing tight enough to hurt.
"I need to take my life back," I said, threading my fingers through his before he could pull away. "Really take it back."
"What does that mean?" His voice was carefully neutral, but I could feel the fear radiating off him like heat from a forge.
"It means I need to go back to LA."
I felt him flinch, his whole body jerking, like I'd struck him. His breathing changed, got shallow, and I knew he was fighting not to grab me, not to argue, not to lock me in the house and never let me leave again.
"Not to stay," I said quickly. "Not to return to that life. But to end things properly. Face the lawyers, break the contracts, pack up my house. Sell it, probably. Close that chapter completely so it can never reach out and drag me back."
"Steph—"
"I'm coming back to you." I turned to face him fully, needing him to see my eyes, to understand. The setting sun painted his face golden, highlighting the worry lines that had appeared since my kidnapping. "This isn't me leaving. This is me making sure that when I come back, I'm free. Really free. No contracts hanging over my head, no label threatening to sue, no loose ends that could drag me back into that machine."
"How long?” The question came out rough, like gravel in his throat.
"I don't know. Weeks, maybe a month or two. However long it takes to untangle myself legally from that world. To sell the house, break the contracts, pay whatever penalties I need to pay."
He was quiet for a long moment, jaw working, that muscle jumping the way it did when he was struggling with something. I could see the war playing out on his face—his need to protect me battling with his recognition of what I needed to do.
"I hate it," he said finally, the words torn from him. "Every cell in my body is screaming to keep you here, safe, where I cansee you. Where I can stand between you and anything that might hurt you."
"I know."
"The thought of you in LA, alone, dealing with those vultures..." He had to stop, take a breath. "What if another crazy person?—"
I reached across the space between us, laying my hand over his. "Lee… before we go any further with this, we need to talk about something else. Something important."
His shoulders tightened—not defensive, just afraid of where I might be going.
"I'm worried about you," I said softly. "Not about us. Not about me leaving. Aboutyou.You went through hell, too. And you never talk about it. Not really."
He stared at the ground, jaw flexing once. An admission of guilt.
"Baby," I continued gently, “you’ve been carrying trauma since you were fifteen. Then what happened to me… it ripped that wound wide open again. You barely slept. You barely ate. You sat in that hospital chair like you were guarding a door between life and death. That isn’t sustainable.”
His breath hitched the smallest bit.
"Liam, I love your strength. But you're human. And you’re hurting. You think I didn’t see it? I did. I see it every day. It’s like you’re bracing for something bad to happen every second."
He opened his mouth, but I put my fingers lightly to his lips.
“Please don’t tell me you’re fine. I love you too much to let you pretend. You need help carrying this. Real help. Someone who knows how to untangle the knots you tied around your heart to survive.”
He closed his eyes, exhaled shakily. “Steph…”
“Seeing someone doesn’t make you weak,” I whispered. “It makes you someone who wants a future that isn’t driven by fear.And I want that for you. For us. For the family we’re going to build someday. I need you healthy. Whole. Not just surviving.”
He opened his eyes then—wet, vulnerable, but listening.
“I’m not asking you to fix everything overnight,” I said. “I’m asking you to try.”
