That catches me off guard more than anything the runner did.
My father’s hand on my shoulder has always meantmove where I tell you. Nikolai’s grip on my arm meansdon’t make this harder than it needs to be. Every touch I’ve ever known from the men in my life has come with instructions.
Johnny’s hand isn’t telling me anything. It’s just there. Warm and steady against my back, asking nothing.
I don’t pull away.
6
JOHNNY
No memories means no baseline.
No little voice in the back of my head goingrelax, you’ve done this before, this is normal.
Nothing about me is normal right now. Pretty sure that’s established.
So I have zero frame of reference for whatever took over my body on the beach this morning.
That jogger wasn’t a real threat.
I know that now. But in the moment, something ancient and practiced kicked in, and I stepped between him and Natalia like I’d been doing it my whole life. No thought. No decision. Just instinct and three words coming out of my mouth in a voice I didn’t recognize.
The guy left. Fine. But I stood there for a few seconds afterward with adrenaline singing through me and nowhere to put it. It wasn’t fear. Something closer to hunger. Like my body wanted the guy to push back so it could finish what it started.
That’s the part that won’t leave me alone. Not the protectiveness. The eagerness underneath it.
The memories from last night keep circling, too. The boat. This house. Her house.
I tell myself it’s a coincidence. But my gut doesn’t buy it, so I bury the thought before it can take shape and turn my attention to Natalia instead.
Two pills and a glass of water appear on the counter in front of me. I look up. She’s already turning back to the stove, like she didn’t just sense a headache I haven’t mentioned and decide to fix it without a word.
I haven’t earned a single thing this woman’s done for me. I showed up on her doorstep with no name and no story, and she treats me like I’m worth taking care of.
What kind of person does that?
I watch her move around the kitchen. Bacon popping in the pan. A spatula in one hand. Her hair pulled into a messy knot that’s already losing the fight, pieces falling around her neck. She hums something tuneless while she cooks, and I don’t think she knows she’s doing it.
Morning light fills the kitchen in pale gold slants through the salt-streaked window. It catches the side of her face, and something about the angle, the way her lashes cast tiny shadows on her cheekbones, steals the air from my lungs.
She reaches for a plate on the high shelf, and her shirt rides up just enough to show a sliver of skin above her hip. Golden and smooth and warm-looking, and I grip the edge of the countertop and drag my stare somewhere safe.
It doesn’t stay there.
My eyes find her again like they’ve got their own agenda. The dip of her waist. The way her jeans fit like a second skin. She turns to check something on the stove and the fabric of her shirt pulls across her breasts, and I shift on the stool because my body is responding to this woman in ways I can’t hide much longer.
She’s making me breakfast, and I’m thinking about what’s under that shirt. I need to get a grip.
Instead, I replay the walk home this morning. My hand finding the small of her back. Barely any pressure. I didn’t even realize I’d done it until she leaned into it instead of pulling away. Just the faintest shift of her weight toward my palm, and yeah. I was done for.
I can’t stop replaying what she told me, either. A mother she never knew. A father who only sees what she’s useful for. A life she never got to choose. She said more than she planned to, I think. Looked almost annoyed with herself by the end of it.
Everything she described landed somewhere deep and familiar. Like my body knows what that feels like even though my brain can’t tell me why.
She’s still holding back, though. I could feel it. Whole chapters of her story are locked behind that flatit’s not that simple, and I want them so badly it’s moved past curiosity into something I don’t have a name for.
Fuck. This is getting complicated.
