Then: “Lead the way.”
Relief bloomed, ridiculous and immediate.
We fell into step beside each other, our pace unconsciously matching. His stride was longer; mine quickened to keep up. Close enough that our arms brushed once, twice.
Each time, awareness sparked.
I stole a glance at him.
In daylight, he looked even more dangerous. The leather jacket hung open, revealing the T-shirt stretched across his chest. Faded jeans. Boots that looked like they’d seen real use.
Everything about him said function over appearance.
And yet he was devastatingly attractive.
The stitches along his cheekbone only added to it. Evidence. Proof he lived in a world that didn’t apologize.
Hank would have been horrified by visible injuries.
Hank had hated conflict. Hated raised voices. Hated confrontation of any kind. He avoided arguments with the same careful politeness he used for everything else.
At the time, I’d told myself that was maturity.
Now, walking beside Kane, I realized something uncomfortable.
Hank never made me feel protected.
Safe, yes.
But not protected.
There was a difference.
With Kane, I didn’t have to imagine how he’d react if something threatened me.
I already knew.
He’d handle it.
Quietly. Efficiently. Permanently.
And I noticed something else, too. At some point without comment or hesitation, he’d shifted positions so he walked on the outside of the sidewalk, between me and the street. Between me and traffic. Like it was instinct. Like protecting the woman beside him wasn’t a conscious decision, but muscle memory.
The sidewalk rule. My dad used to do that when Rose and I were kids, steering us away from passing cars without even looking. Hank never had. Not once.
And here was this man I’d known for less than an hour, already placing himself between me and anything that might hit too close.
There had been a time when I would have bristled at that. At the implication that I needed protection. That a man should automatically take the outside, open doors, step in front of danger. I’d spent years insisting I didn’t need that—that independence meant never relying on anyone, never letting a man feel responsible for my safety.
But somewhere along the way, independence had blurred into isolation. Into doing everything alone even when I didn’t want to.
Walking beside Kane, it didn’t feel patronizing. It didn’t feel controlling. It felt … grounding. Like someone capable had chosen, without discussion, to take the harder position simply because I was with him.
And, if I was being honest, I liked it.
More than liked it.
I liked the quiet certainty of a man who knew how to handle trouble. Who didn’t need reassurance or permission to step forward when things went sideways. Someone strong enough that I didn’t have to be on guard every second.
