At first, it was just a hideout.A place to meet with the men who helped us plan Cleo’s rescue, a bunker for all the shit we were trying to fix.Now it’s different.Now it’s a safehouse—for her.
She’s here.
Our Cleo.
Breathing the same air, under the same roof.
That should be enough to quiet my mind—to calm me the fuck down.It doesn’t.My chest rattles with the guilt of not saving her sooner.Protecting her is the only thing I can cling to, but even that feels like a half-broken promise.
Footsteps scrape along the stairs, pulling me out of the spiral.Eddie and I move together toward the room.I’m balancing a tray—berries aligned, napkin folded crisp, hot tea poured without a single drop.I told myself it mattered.If I could make breakfast look flawless, maybe some part of the world would feel intact for her.Perhaps she’d believe there was something left that hadn’t collapsed.
The bedroom door is open.The bed inside is too big and custom-made because Eddie likes to have space and sleep with us.I wanted to stay there with her—to curl into her side, to convince her she wasn’t alone.But it isn’t the right time.She needs space.And I’ll give it, even if it pains me.Even if it drags me closer to relapse.
She’s smaller than I remember.Shrunken.Like the air itself has been stripped from her.Leggings cling to her frame, swallowed by Eddie’s oversized sweater.Fuzzy socks hug her feet, absurdly soft against the brutal reality of what she’s survived.She looks like she’s wandered out of another life, misplaced in this one.
At least she found the clothes we brought for her.
“Morning,” I say.My voice is lower than I intend, a rasp that catches on the edges of guilt.My eyes snag on the sweater, the socks, and the tray in my hands.Something I’ve been obsessing over, like it could buy her comfort.“You hungry?”
Her gaze lifts to me, then shifts toward Eddie.The look is wary.Fractured.Yet beneath the fear, a fragile relief lingers—hesitant, like a feeling she doesn’t dare claim as her own.
For a second, she hesitates, her shoulders curling inward as though bracing against a blow.Then, after a long beat, she shrugs.
“Maybe.”
It’s not much, but it’s something.
Slowly, I move toward the two chairs in front of the big window and set the tray there, hoping she’ll feel comfortable there.Maybe Eddie was right, and we need to rearrange the room to make it more optimal for the three of us.
The silence stretches, making me itch.I pour her tea before I can overthink it, sliding the mug close but not too close.Eddie watches me, as if cataloging every move.He’s probably worried that I’m going to freak out.
Cleo wraps her hands around the cup, and her shoulders drop just a fraction as she hovers before the chair.She’s not relaxed—nowhere close—but she looks a little less like she’s bracing for impact.
I remind myself not to push.My sarcasm doesn’t always hit right, and right now it could do more harm than good.So, I sit there, pretending patience is natural for me, pretending silence doesn’t itch under my skin like a rash I can’t stop scratching.
She takes a sip.Another.The steam curls around her face, softening edges carved too harshly by survival.I tell myself to shut the fuck up, to let her have this moment, but I’ve never been any good at swallowing words.
“You know—” I nod toward her socks, the absurdly oversized pair drowning her ankles.“You could start a fashion line with those.Fuzzy Chic.Guaranteed bestseller.”
Her mouth twitches—barely.But it’s there.The smallest pull at the corner of her lips, not a smile, not yet, but a fragile shift, like her body remembering what joy once felt like.
And for a second, watching that almost-smile rise and fade, I let myself believe we might get her back.
Eddie sees it too.His eyes cut to mine, and for once, we don’t argue like an old couple that can’t stand each other because there’s too much baggage that we can’t unload.We just sit there, holding on to the miracle of a half-smile like it’s the only proof that this wasn’t a mistake.
For a second, I believe we might pull this off.Which probably means life’s already lining up the next brick for the window.
ChapterFour
Cleo
I sip the last of the tea and pick at the breakfast, and the exhaustion hits—sudden, bone-deep, as if my body has finally decided it’s safe to collapse.
Eddie takes the tray without a word.Barret says, careful as if offering a lifeline, “You could rest—or get out of the room and see the place.Get to know your surroundings.”He sounds like he’s trying not to impose, and for the first time since they brought me here, I want to let someone decide for me.
Honestly, I want to stay seated and watch the sea hit the shore.It calms me in a way I never thought possible—the endless rhythm pounding against rock as if it could sand down the parts of me left jagged.The view is no clearer from the leather chair than the bed, so I choose the bed.In no time, my eyelids grow heavy.
The room shifts around me.The ocean hushes into a distant murmur.The heater clicks in the corner like a metronome counting down.
