Elliott is out on bail, threatening lawsuits, and pissed as hell that his harassment charge stuck. The restraining order is still in place, but that's just a piece of paper. It won't stop him if he decides to escalate.
I pull up the group chat with Troy, Ace, and Levi.
Me:Need eyes on The Lucky Tap tonight. Elliott's making noise. Steff is off so I won’t be there, but I want to know if he’s sniffing around.
Troy:On it. I'll be there. Ainsley’s working.
Ace:Same.
Levi: I'll swing by after I finish up my last tour.
Then I text Simon, the bar owner.
Me:Can we talk about security at the bar? I want to make sure Steph's covered.
Simon:Absolutely. I’ll call you tomorrow morning.
I shoot a message to the patrol group chat.
Me:If you're in the area of 142 Oak Street, extra patrols are appreciated. Domestic situation, subject out on bail.
Responses come in immediately—affirmatives, offers to help, confirmation that they'll keep an eye out.
This is what I do. Protect and serve. Keep people safe.
But this isn't just anyone.
This is Steph.
And I will burn the world down before I let Elliott touch her again.
That night, we're on her couch watching some crime procedural that I insist is "so inaccurate it's funny." Hercomments to defend the artistic display are better than the show—pointing out everything they get wrong about police work is crucial for a good viewing appreciation, but has me laughing at the dramatic music cues.
At some point, her feet end up in my lap. I don't remember how it happened—just that one minute we were sitting on opposite ends of the couch, and the next she'd shifted, tucking her legs under her, and her feet landed against my thigh.
I should say something. Move them. Acknowledge the boundary we're crossing.
Instead, I rest my hand on her ankle, thumb tracing absent patterns against her skin.
She doesn't pull away.
An hour later, her head tips sideways onto my shoulder, and her breathing evens out.
She's asleep.
I stay very still, hyperaware of every point of contact between us. Her head on my shoulder, her feet in my lap, the soft weight of her against my side.
This is dangerous. This feeling of rightness. On how she's supposed to be here. This is where she belongs.
But I can't bring myself to move.
I sit for another twenty minutes, watching her sleep, memorizing the peaceful expression on her face.
When my leg goes numb and the credits roll on the third episode, I carefully extract myself and scoop her into my arms.
She makes a soft sound but doesn't wake, just burrows closer to my chest.
I carry her to the bedroom, nudging the door open with my shoulder. The room smells like her—something floral and clean. I set her on the bed, pulling the blanket up over her.
