It wasn’t kidnapping—not at first.
It was a conversation.Then a compromise.Then a drive.
And now it’s…this.
A new key.A tilted porch.A house that looks like it’s rooting for me—just not very hard.Like it knows what I’ve done.
The truth is, Iknowtime will fix us.
If we can just get quiet enough, still enough, he’ll remember.
He’ll remember I’m capable of softness.
He’ll remember what it feels like to want me.
And when he does—he’ll thank me.
But I don’t think he remembers anything right now.Not with the duct tape.
Obviously, the man at my door doesn’t know any of this.
He sees a woman with too much baggage and not enough help.
And maybe he’s right.
He just doesn’t realize most of it is breathing.
He clears his throat and reaches for the knob.
And I hand him the key—before anything else can give me away.
Better to get this over with.He needs to go.
I already have one man locked up.
I’m not looking for a second.
5
Luke
Itake the key from her hand.Warm.Slight tremor in her fingers.Adrenaline, caffeine, or trauma—it is hard to say from one touch.The key goes in.Instead of ramming the door, I lean my shoulder into the frame, turn the knob all the way, and lift as I push.
The door releases and swings inward like it has never been the problem.
She exhales, a quiet, embarrassed huff.
“Of course.”
“House settles on this side,” I say.“She’s crooked.Needs new supports.”
Her brow lifts.“She?”
“Any structure that holds that much weight and keeps standing,” I say, handing the key back, “earns the pronoun.”
She almost smiles.There is the ghost of it—quick as a shadow—before she wrestles it down.She doesn’t want to show too much too soon.She thinks I deserve the cautious version of her.
She looks past me into the entryway.The air smells of stale drywall dust and old carpet glue, tinged with something sour that doesn’t quite commit to mold.
