Kai had kept his promise. He’d shown up the day after the generator incident, and the day after that, and the day after that. Sometimes he had an excuse—checking the water heater, making sure the porch railing was secure, hauling in firewood I hadn’t asked for. Sometimes he just appeared on my doorstep without explanation.
I’d learned not to question it. I’d also learned to keep a pot of coffee ready, because he always said yes when I offered.
“I should study,” I said, though even to my own ears it sounded weak.
“You should eat.” His gaze drifted past me to the chaos of my study station—textbooks stacked in uneven towers, legal pads filled with increasingly messy notes, empty coffee mugs I kept forgetting to wash. “You’ve been at it all day. Take a break.”
“How do you know I’ve been at it all day?”
He didn’t answer. But I knew.
He’d been checking on me—not in a creepy way. More like he couldn’t help himself. Sometimes I’d catch him on his porch or through his window, his attention angled toward my cabin like he was making sure everything was fine. When I stepped out for fresh air, I’d wave. He never waved back, but he never looked away either.
I should have found it unsettling. Instead, I found it comforting.
“Give me five minutes,” I said. “I need to change.”
“You’re fine.”
I glanced down at myself. Leggings. An oversized T-shirt. Hair in a bun that had surrendered hours ago. No makeup. Definitely coffee breath.
“I’m really not. Five minutes. I promise.”
I didn’t wait for an argument. I left the door open and rushed to the bathroom, brushing my teeth at record speed and splashing cold water on my face. I pulled the elastic from my hair, ran a brush through it until it fell in loose waves, and decided that was good enough.
In the bedroom, I swapped my worn T-shirt for a soft sweater that actually fit. Still casual, but at least I no longer looked feral.
I grabbed my jacket and returned to the door. Kai was still on the porch, patient and unreadable.
“Better,” I said, slightly out of breath.
His eyes swept over me—hair down, clean sweater, less frazzled. Something flickered in his gaze and vanished.
“You were fine before,” he said, but the way he looked at me suggested this was a serious improvement.
Two minutes later, I climbed into his truck. The inside was surprisingly clean—no fast-food wrappers, no clutter. Just neat and spare, like he didn’t let things accumulate.
The drive into town took ten minutes. Iron Peak was small. It had one main street, a handful of side roads, and mountains rising on all sides like quiet sentinels. I’d driven through once, but I hadn’t explored. Studying had taken over everything.
“This is it,” Kai said, parking in front of a low building with a red tin roof and a flickering neon sign that readEATS. “The Ridge Diner. Best food in town.”
“Is it also the only food in town?”
“Pretty much.”
I smiled. He didn’t, but the corner of his mouth twitched. I was learning his near-expressions. A twitch meant amusement. A clenched jaw meant frustration. A long exhale through his nose meant he was thinking carefully about something.
As he opened my door, his hand hovered near my back—never touching, but close enough that I felt his warmth. Protective. That was the word that always came to mind around him. He positioned himself between me and anything that might be a problem, even if that problem was just a curb or an uneven step. He watched doorways. He kept his back to walls.
Something had shaped him that way. Something he wouldn’t talk about.
The diner smelled like bacon, coffee, and maple syrup. A long counter lined one wall, booths the other. Most were already full, and when we walked in, every head turned.
Every single one of them stared at Kai. No—at Kai with me.
“Well, well, well.” A woman emerged from behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. She was plump and rosy-cheeked, with silver-streaked red hair in a messy bun and reading glasses on a chain around her neck. “Kai Slater, as I live and breathe. And with a lady friend.”
“Ma,” Kai said. Just one word, carrying unmistakable warning.
