"This is you?"
"Yeah. Third floor. Unit 3C." She unbuckles her seatbelt. "That's where Daisy's sleeping right now. Where I should be sleeping. Besides, the nanny has to leave. She’s already doing too much. She even accepted staying at my place today instead of hers."
The mention of her daughter brings reality crashing back. She has a kid upstairs. A three-year-old who needs her mother. And here I am keeping her out in her car at two in the morning talking about prison and violence.
"I should let you go then," I say.
"Yeah. You should." But she doesn't move. Neither do I.
We sit there in the running car, neither of us ready to end this. Whatever this is.
Chapter 8 - Joanna
I don't want to go anywhere.
Daisy's safe upstairs with Mrs. Morrison. Warm and asleep and perfectly fine. And I'm here, sitting in my shitty car with its broken heater and rattling engine, next to a man who just told me he spent ten years in prison for protecting his sister.
Most men run when things get hard. My ex ran the second Daisy started teething and crying at night. My father ran emotionally long before he died. But Danny? Danny went to prison. Actually went to prison rather than let his sister's abuser walk away.
That's not a monster. That's something else entirely.
I look at him in the dim light filtering through the windshield. His profile is all sharp angles and hard lines, that jawline that looks like it was carved from granite. God, I want to trace it. Want to run my fingers along that sharp edge and feel the stubble beneath my palm.
I could. I could just reach over and touch him. He's so close in this tiny car that wasn't made to hold a man his size. Our shoulders are almost touching. If I moved my hand six inches to the left, I'd be touching his thigh.
"Can I ask you something?" I hear myself say.
"Yeah."
"Do you have any dreams? Like, things you want for yourself? Beyond fighting?"
He turns to look at me, eyebrows raised. Genuinely surprised by the question. Like no one's asked him that in forever. Maybe no one ever has.
"Dreams?" He lets out a short laugh. "Dreams are for people who believe in themselves, Joanna. I'm content with the life I haveright now." He pauses, then deflects. "What about you? You got dreams?"
I should have expected that. I should have known he'd turn it back on me rather than dig into whatever hopes he's buried under all that violence and self-loathing.
"I want to open a bakery someday," I admit. The words feel vulnerable. Exposed. "I've always loved baking. Cakes, cookies, all of it. I still do it, but only for Daisy now. Make her these elaborate birthday cakes from scratch because it's the one thing I can give her that feels special."
"I bet you're a fantastic cook."
"You don't know that."
He shrugs. "Just a feeling."
Something about the way he says it, so certain, makes me smile. "Do you have a lot of those feelings?"
His lips curve into a smirk. "I thought I didn't."
My heart's suddenly hammering. "What about now?"
"Now?" He leans closer. Just slightly. Just enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. "Now I'm starting to wonder if I was wrong all along."
"About what?" My breath's coming faster. Shorter.
"About feelings. About pushing people away when I could have been doing this sooner."
"Doing what—"
