Page 179 of His Reckoning

My heart pounds a little faster because sending a manuscript always feels like jumping off a cliff—I hope I land somewhere good.

I take a breath, then click Send.

The email disappears, and just like that, the story is out in the world.

I close the laptop slowly and glance toward the hallway.

Toward Sawyer’s room.

A small smile tugs at my lips. He has no idea what kind of person he is.

The man I thought I knew when I first started living here is not the man I’ve come to love.

This man is brave, strong, and caring. I just hope, one day, he can see everything I see. I hope he can let the world see the man that he hides.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Sawyer

Somewhere along the way, the arrangement stopped feeling temporary.

I can’t pinpoint the moment it changed.

Maybe it was the third night she fell asleep in my bed and I didn’t move her.

Or perhaps the first time I woke up from a nightmare and realized she was already there, running her fingers through my hair and telling me to breathe.

Maybe it was something smaller, like the way my coffee machine started making two cups every morning instead of one.

Either way, another month passes before I really stop and notice how much things have changed.

Kayla lives here now. Not officially, but in every way that matters.

Her laptop is permanently stationed at the kitchen island. Her notebooks are scattered across the living room. Half the fridge isfilled with whatever random snacks she decided she needed for “creative inspiration.”

I walk into the kitchen early Sunday morning to find her standing in front of the refrigerator again with the door wide open. Staring inside like the contents might rearrange themselves if she looks hard enough.

“You know,” I say, leaning against the counter, “the food doesn’t multiply if you keep the door open.”

She glances over her shoulder. “I’m evaluating.”

“You’ve been evaluating for three minutes.”

“This is an important decision.”

I watch her pull out a yogurt and shut the door.

Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy knot, and she’s wearing one of my T-shirts that definitely didn’t belong to her a month ago.

At some point, she stopped asking before stealing my clothes. She hops up onto one of the stools and starts eating.

“You’re staring again,” she says casually. “Very creepy.”

I shrug. “You were the one conducting a full investigation of the refrigerator.”

She smiles faintly.

For a few minutes, we sit there in comfortable silence. It’s strange how normal it feels because normal has never really been my thing.