“What she means,” Olivia says gently, “is that you don’t have to shrink just because people are watching.”
That settles into me, because that’s exactly what I was about to do, shrink, minimize, make myself smaller so I fit more comfortably into whatever version of this story other people are telling.
But Coyote Glen isn’t a normal town, is it?
And this isn’t normal gossip.
Here, no one’s love is punished.
It’s defended.
And maybe… I can be defended too.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Zane
It showsup in the small things over the next couple of days.
Aurora doesn’t startle in any obvious way. She doesn’t jump or gasp or draw attention to herself. If you didn’t know what to look for, you’d miss it entirely. But there’s a shift now, subtle and consistent, her body’s started listening for something it didn’t have to before.
A door opens too fast, and her shoulders pull tight for half a second before she smooths it out. Boots hit the stairs a little heavier than usual, and her eyes flick toward the sound, quick and precise. Someone laughs too loudly behind her, and she pauses just long enough to check where it came from before she lets herself relax again.
Then she smiles. Keeps talking. Moves on as if nothing happened.
Most people wouldn’t clock it.
I do.
Because I recognize the pattern. I’ve lived inside it long enough to know what it means when your brain starts mapping exits without asking your permission.
And I don’t like that she’s learning it.
I don’t call it out, though.
Telling someone they’re safe doesn’t make them feel it. If anything, it just reminds them that maybe they’re not. You don’t talk someone out of that kind of awareness. You either give it something to settle into, or you leave it to run wild.
So I quietly change what I can.
It’s not the same as what we did when she first got here. Back then, it was quick fixes… extra locks, eyes on the doors, enough to get through a few nights. Temporary.
This isn’t temporary anymore.
I start with the back windows. Reinforce the frames, swap out the catches for something sturdier. Add a layer of film to the glass so if it takes a hit, it holds instead of shattering inward. It’s not visible unless you’re looking for it, but it makes a difference.
Locks come next. Front, back, upstairs. The old ones weren’t bad, but they weren’t good enough either. I replace them with something tighter, smoother. Less give.
Then the cameras. I widen the coverage, adjust the angles so the alley’s fully in view. There was a blind spot near the dumpster before. Now it’s much smaller, basically nothing. The rear is pretty much all covered.
I reroute the feed so it runs to more than one place. No single point of failure. No easy way to take the whole system down at once.
It’s all simple work. Familiar. The kind of thing that gives my hands something to do while my head runs through everything else.
Finn’s supposed to be taking it easy.
He isn’t.
He moves slower, favors one side when he thinks no one’s looking, but he’s still here every night, still talking, still refusing to sit down unless someone makes him.
