Climbing ivy dark against the stone.
A fountain in the front courtyard overflowing with rainwater.
It looks like the sort of place rich people hide in when they want the world to leave them alone.
Drew pulls up under the covered portico and kills the engine.
I stare through the windshield.
“Where are we?”
“Home.”
The word is simple.
Not loaded.
Still does something to me.
He gets out, comes around, and opens my door before I can process another question.
Then he pauses.
Looks down at me with rain still dripping off his hairline.
“I’m gonna carry you again.”
I should object.
Instead I just nod.
Because at this point, whatever is left of my pride is soaked clean through.
He lifts me out of the truck and carries me into the house.
The inside is warm stone and dark wood and low golden light. It smells like cedar, laundry soap, and something citrusy. The entryway opens into a living room with tall ceilings crossed by old beams, creamy walls, a fireplace already lit, and a couch deep enough to disappear into.
The whole place feels expensive without trying too hard.
Which annoys me on principle.
Except I’m too wrecked to care properly.
Drew sets me down carefully on a giant ottoman near the hearth and crouches in front of me.
For one second he just looks at me.
At my soaked hoodie.
My wet hair.
My mascara halfway down my face.
My boot.
My shaking hands.
Then he says, very quietly, “Okay.”
