“And you’re not fighting a ghost,” I say.
“Good.”
“You’re fighting me.”
Her lips curve slightly. “I can handle that.”
I almost smile. “Careful,” I murmur. “I fight to win.”
She tilts her chin up. “So do I.”
And for the first time in a long time, the past doesn’t feel like a wall. It feels like something that made room for what’s next.And what’s next is standing in front of me. Steady. Unafraid. Burning bright.
Chapter 8
Tessa
The house is quiet in a way that feels dangerous.
Not empty.
Not peaceful.
Charged.
Lacee fell asleep an hour ago, her bedroom door cracked just enough for the nightlight to spill a thin ribbon of gold into the hallway. The dishwasher hums low in the kitchen. Outside, crickets stitch the dark together.
Sawyer stands at the sink, sleeves rolled to his forearms, rinsing the last of the plates from dinner. His back fills the small cabin kitchen. Broad shoulders. Tension coiled beneath cotton and skin.
I lean against the counter, pretending to scroll through my phone. I haven’t read a single word.
“You’re staring,” he says without turning.
I smile. “You have a sixth sense?”
“I’ve been stared at before.”
“By women?”
“By people deciding whether I look friendly.”
I laugh softly. “Do you?”
He shuts off the faucet and dries his hands slowly. “Friendly?”
“Approachable.”
He glances over his shoulder. His eyes are darker at night. Less guarded. “Depends who’s asking.”
I swallow. “I’m asking.”
He tosses the towel onto the counter and turns fully toward me. “You already know the answer.”
My pulse kicks. “That sounds arrogant.”
“That sounds honest.” He steps closer. Not close enough to touch. Close enough that the air shifts.
“You don’t think I notice?” he says quietly.
