"You still read this?" I pick it up carefully.
She looks over, and her face softens. "My dad gave it to me. Said every woman should have a Mr. Darcy in her life."
"And Callum was your Mr. Darcy?" "Callum was Mr. Wickham pretending to be Mr. Darcy."
She takes the book from me, holds it to her chest. "I should have paid more attention to literature. Jane Austen tried to warn me."
"For what it's worth," I say carefully, "I think your dad was right. You deserve your Mr. Darcy."
"Maybe I don't want a Mr. Darcy."
"No?" She looks at me then.
"Maybe I want a carpenter who makes terrible puns and shows up at 4 AM to fix my plumbing."
My heart stops. "Jess—"
"That was hypothetical," she says quickly, breaking eye contact.
"Not about anyone in particular."
"Right."
"Very hypothetical."
"Got it."
We stand there in her flooded bedroom, both of us lying through our teeth, and I've never wanted to kiss someone more in my entire life. But I don't. Because she just left Callum, and she's vulnerable. So I just pick up another box and pretend my heart isn't trying to escape my chest.
By the time we're done, the sky outside is starting to lighten, turning from black to deep purple. Jessica is swaying on her feet,dark circles bruising the skin under her eyes, exhaustion written in every line of her body.
"Ready?" I ask gently.
She looks around the room one last time. At the water damage and the ruined furniture and the ceiling that's going to need replacing. At the life that's falling apart around her, piece by piece.
"No," she admits, and the honesty breaks something in me. "But let's go anyway."
The drive to the packhouse is quiet.
Jessica sits in the passenger seat of my truck, huddled in my henley that's still warm from my body, watching the dark streets of Largo Waters slide past. Her hands are folded in her lap, small and pale in the dashboard light. Her scent fills the cab, creating something new. Something that smells like possibility.
Something that smells like home.
"The others will probably be asleep," I say, breaking the silence as we turn onto our road. "Except maybe Sergio. He doesn't sleep much. Insomnia. Has since high school."
"Will they mind? Me being there?"
I glance at her, taking my eyes off the road for just a second. "They'll be relieved."
"Why?"
"Because we've been worried about you since you came back," I admit. "Worried about Callum, and no one around to protect."
"I don't need protection," she says, but there's no conviction in it.
"Everyone needs protection sometimes." I pull into the driveway and park next to Nacho's patrol car, killing the engine. "There's no shame in accepting help, Jess. There's no shame in admitting you can't do everything alone."
She's quiet for a moment, staring at the dark bulk of the packhouse through the windshield.
