She'd come here expecting—what? For him to be waiting? For him to somehow know she needed him, the way he always seemed to know?
But he wasn't psychic. He was just a man who'd gone to help a friend with a car problem. A man who'd left her a note and leftover pasta and trusted that she'd be fine on her own.
The thing was, she wasn't sure she wanted to be fine on her own. Not tonight.
She pulled out her phone and stared at it. She could call him. Tell him to come back. He would—she knew he would, without hesitation, without complaint. But that felt needy in a way she'd spent years training herself not to be.
Instead, she put the phone down and opened the refrigerator. Found the pasta. Put it in the microwave. Watched the plate rotate behind the glass while the seconds counted down.
The door opened behind her.
She turned. Ronan stood in the doorway, his hands dirty with grease, his shirt untucked, his expression shifting rapidly from surprise to concern.
"You're here."
"I'm here."
"I thought—" He stopped. Looked at her more closely. "What happened?"
"I went to Tampa. The meeting with the prosecutor."
He looked away from her and studied the wall behind her like it owed him money. "How did it go?"
"Fine, I guess.”
The words hung between them. He didn't move from the doorway. Didn't come to her the way he usually did. Just stood there, waiting, his face unreadable.
"Why didn’t you want me there?"
"Because I wanted to do it alone. Because I thought I needed to prove something." The microwave beeped. She ignored it. "Because I'm still not used to having someone I can lean on."
"And how did that work out?"
"Terribly." She almost laughed. "I sat in a federal building and listened to a prosecutor tell me exactly how my father was murdered, and then I drove to his grave and told him everything, and then I came here and you weren't home and I stood in your kitchen feeling sorry for myself because I'd pushed away the one person who would have made all of it easier."
Ronan crossed the kitchen in three strides, pulled her against his chest, and held on.
He smelled like motor oil and sweat. His shirt was rough against her cheek. His heart beat steadily under her ear.
"I would have come," he said into her hair. "If you'd asked."
“I’m aware.”
"I would have sat in that waiting room for hours. I would have driven you there and back. I would have held your hand while she told you things you already knew but needed to hear anyway."
"I know that too." Her voice was muffled against his chest. "That's the problem. You would have done all of that, and I still tried to do it alone."
He pulled back enough to look at her. His eyes were dark, searching. "Why is that a problem?"
"Because I don't know how to stop. A lifetime of doing everything alone, trusting no one, keeping everyone at arm's length. It's not a habit. It's who I am now. And I don't know how to be someone different."
"You don't have to be someone different." He cupped her face in his hands. His palms were rough, calloused. "You just have to let me in sometimes. Not every time. Not even most times. Just sometimes."
"What if I forget?"
"Then I'll remind you."
"What if I push you away?"
