I stared at the message.
Come in.
Not knock. Not wait on the porch. Not stand there while he decided whether to let me into this part of his life.
Come in.
Another bark boomed from inside. Then came the unmistakable scramble of claws on hardwood and a heavy thump like furniture had lost a fight.
I got out of the car.
The cold slapped me hard enough to remind me I’d left my gloves on the passenger seat after naming them like an idiot. My sneakers sounded too loud on the sidewalk. Every step toward the porch felt like crossing a line that would not erase cleanly behind me.
What if Olivia came home early? She wasn’t supposed to be back until Thursday, but flights changed. Plans changed. People changed their minds. What if a neighbor looked out? What if someone from the organization lived nearby? What if this was the moment our secret stopped being a secret because I couldn’t sit alone in my own damn car without short-circuiting?
Tiny lost his mind on the other side of the door.
A huge, frantic bark. Nails skidding. Another thump.
Despite everything, my mouth twitched.
Then my eyes burned, because that ridiculous dog sounded excited I existed.
I climbed the porch steps.
My hand hovered near the knob.
For one second, fear pinned me there.
Not fear of Declan.
Fear of being too much now that he had me somewhere real. Not the locker room. Not a hotel. Not borrowed minutes and locked doors with excuses waiting outside them. Here, in his house, with his walls around us and consequences in every room.
The door opened before I touched it.
Declan filled the doorway in black sweats and a gray T-shirt, hair damp like he’d showered too fast, beard dark at the jaw, bare feet planted on the hardwood. One hand was hooked in the collar of the biggest dog I had ever seen.
Tiny was absurd. A wall of muscle, jowls, drool, and mournful brown eyes, with a tail beating so hard his whole back half moved. The second he saw me, he tried to shove through Declan’s legs.
“Back,” Declan said.
Tiny made a wounded noise like no one in history had ever suffered more.
I stared at him. “That’s still a ridiculous name.”
Declan’s attention stayed on my face. “He disagrees.”
“He looks like he could repossess my car.”
Tiny whined and strained toward me like we had unfinished business from another life.
Declan looked me over once. Fast, but thorough. Not checking me out. Checking me. Face, hands, breathing, shoulders up around my ears, fingers opening and closing at my sides.
He didn’t ask if I was okay.
He knew.
He didn’t look past me to scan the street. He didn’t start naming risks. He didn’t remind me he was married, or my coach, or that I’d just left one wreckage and walked straight toward another.
