Inside, I can hear distant laughter from somewhere down the hall—Stunt, probably, already making somebody regret knowing him.
Lucy leans against the railing.“This was a really good day.”
“Yeah, baby it is the best.”
“I was nervous.”
“I know.”
She glances up at me.“You always know.”
“Usually.”
“That must be exhausting.”
I huff a laugh.“Sometimes.”
She watches the water another second.Then says quietly, “Thank you for bringing me.”
I look at her.“You being here matters to me.”
The words come easier now than they used to.Not easy.Just easier.
Her gaze holds mine, soft and searching.“I know,” she explains.“It’s the kind of man you are, the kind of men you all are.If something doesn’t matter, it doesn’t happen.Cut and dry.”
And there it is again—that way she says simple things like they’re sacred.I rest one hand on the railing behind her, not trapping, just close.“You fit in.”
She smiles and shakes her head a little.“Lindsey helped.”
“Sure.”
“She did.”
“She opened the door,” I say.“You walked through it.”
That lands.I can see it.
The quiet pride, the relief, maybe even the realization that she’s not on the outside of this world looking in anymore.Not when she’s with me.Not if I have anything to say about it.
She steps closer then, just enough that our shoulders brush.
“I liked seeing you with them,” she says.
“Yeah?”
“You’re different with them than you are in town.”
“How?”
“Everyone respects you,” she says.“Not because they’re afraid of you.Because they trust you.”
The truth of that hits deeper than it should.
I look out over the lake because it’s easier than looking at her when she says things like that.“Comes with the patch.”
“No,” she says softly.“It comes with the man you are.”
I turn back.And for a second the whole world narrows to hotel balcony, sunset, Lucy in my shirt from this morning now swallowed up in one of my spare hoodies she stole from my bag because she got cold and looked too right in it for me to object.
