"Every night when I fell asleep next to Callum and wished I was somewhere else." She picks up the wooden spoon again, turning it over in her hands, not looking at me. "Every time he touched me and I felt nothing..."
The tension in the kitchen is suffocating. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, taste it on my tongue. Every instinct I have to close the distance between us, to pull her into my arms, to show her exactly what I've been holding back for years.
But she's vulnerable. And scared. And she just escaped a man who used her vulnerability against her.
I'm not going to be that man.
I won't.
"I'm sorry too," Jessica says suddenly, setting down the spoon with a clatter.
I blink. "For what?"
"For leaving without saying goodbye." She wipes her cheek with the back of her hand, leaving another streak of flour. "That night, after what happened with Carlos. I panicked. I packed my bags at three in the morning and I ran and I didn't even think about how it would affect any of you. I just left."
"You were scared."
"I was a coward." She throws my own word back at me, and there's steel in her voice now. "I knew something was happening between all of us. I felt it every time I came to this house..." She takes a shaky breath. "And instead of facing it, I ran. I wentback to Callum because he took lead and didn’t hide his feelings toward me.”
"And what do you want?" I ask, even though I'm terrified of the answer.
She looks at me. Really looks. Like she's seeing past the pack leader, past the hockey coach, past all the walls I've built to keep people out.
"I don't know yet," she admits, and somehow the honesty makes it worse. "But I think I want to find out. I think I'm ready to stop running."
I feel like maybe, after all these years, something might finally be within reach.
"Then find out." I push off from the counter, putting some distance between us before I do something stupid. "Take all the time you need. We're not going anywhere. We'll be here."
"Even after I ran six years ago?"
"Especially after you ran." I reach out and brush a streak of flour from her cheek with my thumb. Her skin is soft under my fingertips. Warm. Alive. "You came back. That's what matters."
Her eyes flutter closed for a moment.
"The cookies need to bake for twelve minutes," she says softly. "Will you stay? Keep me company?"
"I'll stay as long as you want."
She smiles. It's small and wobbly and nothing like the bright grins I remember from years ago, before Callum. But it's real. And it's for me.
"Thank you, Sergio."
"For what?"
"For being here. For not pushing. For..." She gestures vaguely at the kitchen, at the mess of flour and chocolate and half-formed dough scattered across the counter. "For letting me have a breakdown in your kitchen at three in the morning."
"Anytime. Seriously. My kitchen is available for breakdowns twenty-four seven."
She laughs. It's watery and choked but genuine, and the sound does something to my chest. Makes it ache in a way that's almost good.
She turns back to the counter and starts spooning dough onto a baking sheet. I watch her work, memorizing the curve of her wrist, the way she bites her lip in concentration, the small sounds of satisfaction she makes when each cookie is perfectly shaped and spaced.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out without thinking, expecting a text from Nacho asking if I'm okay or Carlos reporting in from his workshop.
It's not.
