“Not long enough to be a problem.”
She smiles at that, soft and shy, and I take her bag automatically, slinging it over my shoulder before threading our fingers together. The contact grounds me. Always does.
We start walking.
It’s been a few days since the call with Cruz. For now, the truce holds—he stays away from us, and the files stay locked away.
But it’s not peace. It’s a truce built on threats and dark history, and I know better than to trust it completely. The Serpents don’t just disappear. They wait. They regroup. They strike when you least expect it.
Still, for now, the constant tightness in my chest has eased.
For now, she’s safe.
Millie swings our joined hands slightly as we walk, her steps light even after a long shift.
“How was your day?” I ask.
“Busy. One of the cooks called in sick, so everything was chaotic. But I didn’t drop any plates today, so I’m calling it a win.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “You’ve never dropped a plate.”
“I almost did last week.”
“Almost doesn’t count.”
She bumps her shoulder into mine. “You’re biased.”
“Yeah,” I say simply. “I am.”
She looks up at me, surprised by the bluntness, and something warm moves through my chest at the way her eyes soften.
Things between us have settled into something steady. Comfortable. We have a rhythm now. She works. I run Wilder House. We eat together. Sleep together. Talk about nothing and everything.
She cooks most nights now.
The first time she tried, she was nervous, hovering around the kitchen like she expected me to judge her. Now she hums while she works, barefoot on the tile, experimenting with spices and recipes she finds online.
She’s good at it. More than good.
Watching her discover things she enjoys—cooking, her job, even small things like picking out groceries—has become one of my favorite parts of the day. She’s coming into herself. Growing more confident. Laughing more.
And I love it.
I love her.
The realization has been creeping up on me for days. I haven’t said the words yet. I don’t know how. They feel too big. Too fragile. Like saying them out loud might break whatever we have. But I feel them every time she smiles at me. Every time she curls against me at night. Every time she trusts me even without saying a word.
She chatters beside me about one of the other waitresses who’s trying to set her up on a double date with herboyfriend’s friend. She tells the story dramatically, complete with impressions, and I listen, even as something sharp twists in my chest.
“You told her no,” I say.
“Of course I did,” she replies quickly. Then, in a softer tone, “I told her I’m not interested in anyone else.”
The tension drains out of me so suddenly it almost makes me dizzy.
I squeeze her hand.
Good.
