“I know.”
“Mom and Dad—”
“I know,” he repeats.
“And Knox—”
Griff’s jaw tightens as he opens his truck door. “One step at a time, Sierra.”
He climbs inside and starts the engine. The low rumble carries across the lot, heavy and grounding, like the first move in something that can’t be undone.
I pull out behind him, my headlights catching the back of his truck as we leave the lot together.
In the rearview mirror, The Brew House glows warm and ordinary, giving nothing away.
It looks exactly the same.
I don’t.
And I know, with a clarity that scares me, that this is the last quiet moment I’ll have for a while.
The catalyst has already ignited.
The rest is just timing.
Chapter Twenty Two
The Shape of Control
Sarah
Iwake up steadier than I expect to. I don’t feel lighter or relieved, but there’s a steadiness to me now, the kind that comes from believing I handled this the right way.
Like everything inside me has been carefully boxed and stacked instead of spilling all over the floor. I lie there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the house, and tell myself that this is what doing the right thing feels like.
Space. Control. Restraint.
I didn’t fall apart last night. I didn’t chase the feeling or the kiss or the version of Jace that makes my judgment wobble. He drew the line, and I accepted it.
That has to count for something.
I get up, shower, dress, move through my morning on autopilot. Coffee tastes normal. My phone stays quiet. The absence of a message from him feels intentional, respectful. Proof that space was the right call.
I cling to that.
Because if space gives me sanity, then I’m doing exactly what I should be doing.
By midmorning, I’m back on campus, juggling emails and meetings and the low-grade buzz of preparation humming through the building. The upcoming event has everyone wound tight in that familiar way, schedules shifting, donors confirmed, last-minute changes being treated like emergencies.
It’s grounding. Predictable.
“Hey.” Ellie’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts as she steps into my office doorway, coffee cup in hand, posture relaxed. She doesn’t look like someone here to interrogate me. She looks like someone checking in.
“You got a minute?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say easily. “Come in.”
She perches on the edge of the chair, studying me in that casual way that still manages to feel perceptive. “You okay?”
