Not trapping.
Just gathering me carefully against him, one arm around my shoulders, the other hand at the back of my head.
I go without thinking.Just fold into him.And because I’ve spent too many years holding myself together in thin, brittle pieces, the relief of not doing that for one second feels almost like grief.
His mouth brushes my hair.“You should’ve told me sooner,” he says, not as accusation.Just fact.
“I know.”
“You tell me next time.”
“There won’t be a next time.”
“No,” he agrees, his voice turning colder.“There won’t.”
I believe him.That should be reckless.Maybe it is.But I do.After a minute, he eases me back enough to look at my face.“Quinn doesn’t know?”
I shake my head.“Good.”The word comes out clipped.Protective.Decisive.
He lets me go just enough to pull out a chair and guide me into it.“Sit.”
“You’re very bossy.”
“You’re shaky.”
Also true.
I sit.
He hands me the sweet tea I forgot was there and crouches beside my chair instead of looming over me.The move is so deliberate it catches in my chest.
He knows exactly how not to make me feel cornered.
“I’m going to have someone trace the number,” he says.
My head jerks up.“You can do that?”
His expression saysobviously.“I have people.”
“Of course you do.”
“Also,” he says, “I’m not leaving tonight.”
The words should probably make me protest.Instead relief washes through me so hard it’s embarrassing.
“Okay,” I say quietly.
He searches my face.“You sure?”
“Yes.”He nods once.“Then eat, baby.”
I look at the food on the table and almost laugh again.“Now?”
“Yeah.Fear doesn’t beat dinner.”
I let out a breath that trembles on the way out.“That sounded rehearsed.”
“It wasn’t.”
