I close my eyes for a second.
Just a second.
Because if I don’t, I might say something I can’t take back.
Or worse—I might start understanding.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
Not yet.
Not when everything I’ve believed for three years is starting to crack right down the middle.
“No.”
She stops and glances back over her shoulder.
“What?”
I move without thinking, stepping closer until there’s barely any air left between us.
“You’re not sleeping in that fucking van while you’re here. Especially not if you’ve got someone breathing down your neck.”
Her brows knit together.
“What are you talking about?”
“You said that like there’s a problem,” I remind her. “Now, what is it? You pick up a stalker? Somebody cross a line, Ezzy?” I murmur, calling her a pet name I once whispered in her ear.
Fuck. no. Don’t think about that.
She hesitates.
That alone is enough to piss me off.
“It started with emails, texts. Then notes and gifts on my van. And just a few days ago, he broke into a small apartment I lease,” she says finally, quieter now. “I knew I had to get you to sign the papers and well, here I am.”
The words hit, and something primitive tears loose inside me.
Hot. Violent. Territorial.
Mine.
I hate that word.
Hate what it does to me.
Hate how right it feels.
I shove it down just enough to keep from doing something stupid in front of witnesses.
“You’re not staying in that van,” I say flatly.
Her chin lifts immediately. “Why not? It’s been a home for me longer than anywhere else, I’ve ever stayed.”
And that right there is a fucking harsh reminder that we were married for just six months when I was deployed, and six months later, she was gone.
“I can handle myself,” she says.
