Out for six.
Again.
When my suitcase was half full, I stopped and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at my hands. They looked normal. They didn’t look like hands that had been trapped. Theydidn’t look like hands that had clutched at Wyatt’s jacket like it was the only thing holding me together.
My fingers curled into the blanket.
A sob rose in my throat, and I swallowed it hard.
Not yet.
I stood again and finished packing, moving slower now, more deliberate, like each folded shirt was a decision. Like each zipper pull was me choosing a direction.
When I finally carried my suitcase out into the living room, Wyatt was still there, exactly where I’d left him, sitting on the edge of the chair, hands clasped, gaze lifting the moment I appeared.
He stood immediately.
“Ready,” he asked.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
Wyatt’s gaze flicked to the suitcase, then back to my face. “Dani.”
“She’s asleep,” I said quietly. “Or pretending she is.”
Wyatt’s mouth twitched. “Probably pretending.”
I hesitated, then said, “I’ll call her when I’m on the road. I can’t do the goodbye thing right now.”
Wyatt nodded, no judgment. “Okay.”
We moved toward the door.
Outside, the city noise hit me like a wave. Cars. Voices. Concrete. I hated how normal it all was.
Wyatt’s truck was parked at the curb, right behind mine. “I’ll follow you.”
My throat tightened. “Okay.”
When we finally pulled into the yard at Ray’s, my stomach dropped in a way that hurt. The place looked the same and completely different. The fence line. The barn. The house with its worn boards and familiar windows.
My house.
My father’s house.
The truth of that still felt like a bruise.
Wyatt killed the engine and waited, watching me like he didn’t want to move too fast.
I stared at the porch, my breath shallow.
“You want me to come in,” Wyatt asked quietly, “or you want space.”
I swallowed. My voice came out rough. “Come in, please.”
Wyatt didn’t move, but his voice came low. “Are you alright?”
I nodded, but my throat worked like it was trying to swallow a sob.
