She swallows. “That’s not?—”
“It sounds like you just had one of the worst days of your life,” I say gently. “You’re hurt. You’re overwhelmed. And you’re still trying to go back to work.” I tilt my head slightly. “That’s fucking impressive.”
Her eyes glisten.
“But it’s also ridiculous.”
A small, startled laugh escapes her before she can stop it. Maybe that’s progress.
“So, here’s what’s going to happen,” I say calmly.
Her eyes narrow again. “That sounds suspiciously like you deciding things.”
“Relax,” I say. “You still have veto power.”
She crosses her arms. “I’m listening.”
“You’re coming to my place for dinner. I will cook us something or if you would rather order out, I can do that too.”
When she doesn’t immediately deny me, I continue. “From there you are free to rest and relax. Or you can talk out your day and I’ll listen to every word.” I shrug. “Or you can ignore me entirely if you want to. Either way is fine, but at least I’ll know you’re safe, you’re warm, and you’re fed.”
Her eyes glisten as she silently considers my offer. “It has been a super shit day.”
I brush a few strands of her hair back from her face, nodding slowly. “I’m sorry for that. Truly, I am. I don’t like seeing you in pain.”
Her hesitation flickers. “Just dinner?”
Hope blooms inside my chest. “Just dinner,” I repeat. “Just food and relatively friendly company and…maybe just one night where you don’t have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
She sighs like she’s losing a battle she simply doesn’t want to fight anymore. “Okay. Fine.”
“Yeah?”
She nods. “Yeah.”
I open the door for her, the cool rain-scented air rushing into the building. She hesitates only half a second before stepping out beside me and for just a few minutes I’m grateful.
Grateful she’s not running.
Grateful she’s not going to be alone.
Grateful she’s letting someone walk with her for once.
Grateful that someone is me.
14
SUTTON
The drive to Shepherd’s place is quiet. The kind of quiet where my brain keeps replaying the entire disaster of a day on a loop while the city drifts past the window like it’s happening to someone else. Streetlights smear across the glass in soft golden streaks while rain beads and slides down the window in slow, lazy trails. My hand rests in my lap, wrapped in white gauze that already feels too bright against my skin. It doesn’t feel like my hand. It feels like someone else’s injury. Someone else’s mess entirely.
Shepherd drives with both hands on the wheel, calm as always. Steady speed. No sudden movements. Even his breathing seems measured. Everything about him is controlled and safe, which is ironic considering my entire life currently feels like it’s collapsing in slow motion.
When the SUV turns into a quiet neighborhood and rolls up a long driveway, my stomach tightens.
Shepherd’s house is…big. Not mansion-big, thank God, but big enough. His house sits up from the street, with broad wood steps and oversized panels of glass that I imagine can turn the front rooms into glowing aquarium tanks after dark. Each lit window frames tidy furniture and pale walls, not a single curtain for hiding the expensive restraint of the place. The driveway is edged with sod and those catalog-perfect bushes that look like green clouds dropped all in a row. Those bushes have to cost more than an entire year’s worth of my rent.
Or former rent.
