No Gideon in the kitchen. No Gideon at the table. No note left on the counter with instructions and conditional permissions.
Nothing.
The relief was immediate and shameful.
I didn't want to see him. Didn't want to face him across the breakfast table and pretend I was fine. That I hadn't fallen apart in his hands. That I hadn't liked the way he put me back together.
I grabbed my keys and left before that relief could curdle into something worse.
The drive to the bookstore took twenty minutes.
I spent eighteen of them white-knuckling the steering wheel, trying not to think about the way my body shifted uncomfortably in the seat. The way every turn reminded me of muscles I'd used. Of sensations I'd never felt before. Of pleasure I hadn't earned and didn't deserve.
By the time I parked, my jaw ached from clenching.
I sat in the car for a moment, breathing through my nose, forcing my hands to unclench.
You're fine. You're functional. No one will notice.
I climbed out slowly. Locked the door. Walked toward the bookstore entrance with my chin up and my spine straight—even though it hurt. Even though everything hurt.
The construction crew had finished one section of the store early. The sign out front gleamed, freshly painted. Through the windows, I could see the new shelves, the refinished floors, the space transformed into something better than I'd ever managed on my own.
His money. His influence. His will imposed on my sanctuary.
I unlocked the door.
And hated that the first thought I had wasn't anger.
It was gratitude.
The bell chimed as I stepped inside.
Two workers were already there—unfamiliar faces, but the same crew that had been cycling through all week. One knelt by the baseboards with a paintbrush. The other measured something near the window display.
They both looked up when I entered.
The older one nodded. "Morning."
"Morning," I managed.
My voice came out rougher than I intended. I cleared my throat and moved past them toward the back room, trying not to limp. Trying not to look like a woman who'd been taken apart and carefully reassembled less than twenty-four hours ago.
The coffee maker sat where I'd left it yesterday—dusty, neglected, shoved to the corner while renovations consumed the rest of the space.
I pulled it forward and filled the reservoir with water from the tiny sink. My hands moved on autopilot. Scoop grounds. Close lid. Press start.
The familiar ritual steadied me.
Coffee I could control. Coffee made sense. Coffee didn't ask questions or touch me in ways that made me forget who I was.
The machine sputtered to life, filling the back room with heat and the bitter smell of brewing.
I leaned against the counter and closed my eyes. Just for a second. Just to breathe without anyone watching.
But the moment I did, I felt him. Gideon's hands on my hips. His voice in my ear. The way he'd fed me with infinite patience, washed me with unsettling tenderness, dressed me like I was something fragile.
My eyes snapped open.
