“Breathe,” I say quietly. “That’s all you’ve got to do.”
Ruby swallows. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”
“Then you throw up,” I say. “Body resets.”
Her gaze flicks to my face, and something shifts there. A thin thread of trust pulled tight.
The road bends deeper into Lovestone Ridge, trees thickening, lights thinning until there’s nothing but forest and narrow blacktop.
Then we turn onto a private track, and my cabin comes into view through the trees, dark wood and quiet lines against the pale morning.
Something in my chest tightens.
This place is mine. Quiet. Isolated. The closest thing I’ve got to peace.
Bringing her here feels like opening a locked door inside myself and handing somebody the key.
Ace parks, kills the engine, and gets out first, eyes already working the perimeter.
I step down and hold a hand out to her.
She hesitates, then puts hers in mine.
Her fingers are cold.
My grip stays careful.
She steps onto the gravel and looks up at the cabin like she doesn’t know what to do with a place that feels lived in.
I catch the way her shoulders loosen half an inch.
It hits me hard.
Like she fits here.
Like she belongs in my quiet.
Ace circles the truck, checks the cargo bed, then looks at me. “I’ll handle the bike and head out. You get her inside.”
I don’t argue.
Ruby follows me up the porch steps. The door opens under my hand, familiar and easy. The air inside is warmer than outside, carrying wood, clean linen, and the faint trace of coffee grounds.
She steps in slowly, taking everything in. The worn rug. The couch. The shelf with a few books. The mug still sitting on the counter.
Her breath catches.
“This is... yours,” she whispers.
“Yeah.”
She turns her head, and for one second she looks almost normal. Like she’s just a woman in a cabin and not someone who was nearly sold the night before.
That sight knocks something loose in me.
I step closer before I can stop myself.
Ruby’s gaze drops to my mouth.
