She wasn’t careless.
She had done everything right.
And still—fear pressed in close, cold and intimate, as footsteps shifted outside her house.
She held the phone tighter and waited for the sound of sirens.
Grace saton her couch wrapped in a blanket she didn't remember grabbing, watching Officer Sullivan go to the kitchen.
Mercer stood in her living room, notepad out, asking questions in that same flat, skeptical tone he'd used the last time.
"And you're sure you heard something?"
Grace's fingers tightened on the blanket. "Yes."
"But you didn't see anyone."
"No," she said. "I called 911. Like you're supposed to."
Mercer made a noncommittal sound and jotted something down.
The officer came back from the kitchen. “Nothing obvious,” he said. “Looks like someone may have been testing the door. Could’ve spooked themselves and taken off.”
Grace didn’t feel comforted.
Mercer closed his notebook. "We'll increase patrols in the area. But honestly, Miss Hart?—“
The front door slammed open.
Grace jumped, blanket falling from her shoulders.
Luke filled the doorway.
His chest rose and fell too fast, like he’d been running.
His gaze landed on Grace. His eyes swept her from head to toe in a single frantic pass.
Something in his expression cracked.
"Grace," he breathed.
Then he was moving—crossing the room in three long strides, dropping to his knees in front of the couch.
"Are you hurt?" His voice was rough, urgent.
Grace stared at him. "I'm—I'm fine?—"
"You're shaking." He was blocking out everything else in the room—one hand on her shoulder, one cupping her elbow, grounding and gentle. "Jesus Christ, you're shaking."
"Bennett," Mercer said sharply. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Luke didn't look at him. Didn't even acknowledge he'd spoken. His eyes stayed locked on Grace, searching her face with an intensity that made her chest tight.
"I need you to tell me what happened," Luke said. "Everything. From the beginning."
"Luke—" Grace started.
"Please." The word cracked. "Please, Grace."
